


Good and Evil

by ihavetodothis



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Study, F/M, M/M, POV Draco Malfoy, Pre-Battle of Hogwarts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-22
Updated: 2016-01-26
Packaged: 2018-04-05 08:58:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 36,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4173819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ihavetodothis/pseuds/ihavetodothis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Within a week, Draco's life has gone from bad to worse: his father's dead, both sides of the war are out to get him, and the only person willing to lend him a hand, of all people, is Harry Potter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. (Im)placable

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts), [ivyblossom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivyblossom/gifts), [hollycomb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollycomb/gifts), [ascandalinwatsonspants (allix)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allix/gifts).



> This is a character-based story and not a plot-based story. Set right after Harry, Ron, and Hermione leave with Griphook to infiltrate Gringott’s. I can promise an update once a month. I hope it will be quicker, but it takes me a while to write and edit and everything!

_"We're all caught up in circumstances, and we're all good and evil. When you're really hungry, for instance, you'll do anything to survive. I think the most evil thing -- well, maybe that's too strong -- but certainly a very evil thing is judgement, the sin of ignorance." - Anthony Hopkins  
_

           

 

           The first thing he notices is that his cheek is smashed painfully against something cold and solid; then his arms twitch, impulsively springing toward him to push him up, and he cries out, eyes snapping to the source of the pain and finding one of his arms bent in at an unnatural angle. So, he abandons the idea of pushing himself up and only uses enough energy to roll over onto his back and cradle his injured arm to his chest. Face contorted in pain, he breathes sharply and stares down at his body, robes tangled and filthy, small cuts and bruises prominent on the salt-white skin of his abdomen, visible through several large holes in what's left of his clothing.

  
           Several images tumble through his vision: green flashes of light, his father's unblinking grey eyes, and his mother's long, yellow-white hair blocking a cascade of tears.

           Something punctures his chest like a blunt sword and he clutches it with his unscathed left hand, surprised not to feel a wound, but rather the faint tattoo of his heartbeat under thin, dehydrated flesh. He imagines that the ghost of this wound slowly moves down to the pit of his stomach and lurches, causing him to gag and cough. But he doesn't become sick. His ears ring, a loud grumble of hunger wracks the room, and the harsh floor underneath him digs ominously into his bones.

  
           As he goes over the situation in his head -- no wand, no doors, no company but eerily-elongated shadows stretched across the walls -- his breathing comes out more quickly, panic taking over. Then his face is wet...from tears, sweat, or blood, he's not sure, and he succumbs to sleep once more.

\-------------

 

           An explosion rips open his eyes -- no, a door opening. A _door_? And a woman's body is flung into the room haphazardly. _Bellatrix Lestrange_? Her face is half-covered by a mess of knotted hair, but she's still easily identifiable.

  
           "Hello? Who's there!"

  
           His voice comes out broken and raw, but he tries not to let any recognition of weakness show in his jaw. A low, heartless laugh that crawls into the crevices of his spine emits from a familiar, temporarily-nameless man he now sees standing in the doorway, grinning and waving a hand in his direction. The man's teeth are sharp and white against his dark skin, spaced out unevenly like the open mouth of a Venus Fly Trap.

  
           "Brought you a friend. Your auntie Bella! Guess where I found her?" he sneers with menacing joy.

  
           Draco's lips move fruitlessly, struggling around words that fail to hold sound.

  
           "Good lord, Draco. I told you to _guess_! You're never any fun. _Crucio_!"

  
           The room disappears and brightness replaces it, distorting his vision as he writhes and screams, a thousand white-hot knives dragging through his skin all at once. Then the pain stops and the laughter comes again. The cold floor feels soothing for a moment.

  
           "Found her in Diagon Alley. With her _wand_. Remember who had her wand last?"

  
           A whimper fights its way out of Draco's throat and he shivers violently.

  
           "You...y-you can't get away with this. My father..."

  
           "Your father will _what_? Come back from the dead? Your father disappointed the Dark Lord too many times. He should be lucky to die by the Dark Lord's own hands!"

  
           Still attempting to reserve his dignity, Draco's muscles contract with sobs that he doesn't dare release and he closes his eyes; nothing but pain seems to exist, drowning out the man's biting last words. Only when the door disappears and he and Bellatrix are left alone does he wish he had tried to negotiate with him instead of saying whatever useless thing came to mind.

  
           Bellatrix lies facedown on the ground beside him, which is how Draco imagines he was before he woke up. He watches her for what seems like an eternity, but she doesn't stir. The steady rise and fall of her back is reassuring, though -- at least she's still alive.

          _If this is even her._

  
           He can think of a hundred people with whom he'd rather be trapped in a room right now...at least it isn't that Death Eater, too...Merlin forbid it's a member of the Order. He can't tell who would be more upset to see him, but he figures an Order member might take pity on him...

  
           Yes, to a Death Eater, his loyalties lie in a dangerous sociopath who seems to have hypocritical ideologies, but to the Order of the Phoenix, he's just a child who made poor choices. He's gotten very good at knowing exactly which angles he needs to play, when.

           Sometimes he truly wonders if things might have been different, had Dumbledore followed through on his bootless promises.

           The brightness that fills the room without a tangible source begins to dim, a lack of light following Draco's increasing lack of interest in remaining coherent...he blinks more deeply until he sees the underside of his eyelids more often than curiously-stained walls and the slumped, broken-looking form of someone he hopes with the utmost insanity is his aunt…

 

          _Pontus, one of the many albino peacocks that roam around Malfoy Manor, walks in front of him and stops. It turns its beak toward him and cocks its head curiously, like an art enthusiast studying a painting. He takes a step toward it -- on legs without bruises! -- and it turns around quickly, scurrying off into a set of neatly-trimmed hedges. Instinctively, he runs after it and finds that his arm is fine now, healed completely, and the wounds on his chest haven't even left scars._

  
_Beyond the hedges, another peacock and Pontus stand facing him, their heads cocked again, observing him. When he takes another step, they break off and run in two different directions, Icharus toward the garden and Pontus back through the hedges. He follows Icharus into the garden, running past towering roses that look as if the sunset were painted on them, tiny green stems sticking up from soil, and grapevines that weave themselves through a wooden fence._

__

_Fleetingly, he wonders where the gardener has gone, since he's almost always here, and knows with a pang of irritation that the man will be fired for slacking on his duties._

__

_Beyond the garden, at the edge of a magnificent koi pond, Icharus stops again, but does not turn to face him. The bird looks into the depths of the pond, completely still. There's a ripple at the surface of the water and Draco moves closer, expecting to find a koi. But there aren't any fish at all in the water, he realizes, looking around the pond, and it's become so deep, the bottom seems unfathomable._

  
_Then there's an odd shape of white coming up through the water and Draco's heart races. The closer it comes to the surface, the more it starts to look like some sort of face, and terror makes his limbs grow cold and stiff._

  
_All at once, the shape emerges in a nest of white hair: his father's lifeless visage, mouth and eyes open as if in shock._

__

_A shriveled, burnt hand that could have been sculpted out of charcoal instead of skin grasps his shoulder and he jumps, unable to pry his gaze from the waterlogged corpse...a familiar voice speaks quietly in his ear, a voice that must be coming from the owner of this unfortunate hand…_

  
_"Your fate was my mistake, Draco. No one can erase what's been done, of course. Time is not under even the most adept wizard's power, but forgiveness is. I'm sorry."_

  
_When he is able to turn around, he's looking into the watery, sapphire-blue eyes of Albus Dumbledore and a vicious burst of anger and dejection washes over him._

  
_"This is_ your _fault, you stupid old man!"_  
           

           The hand on his shoulder tightens and the vibrant garden becomes a dingy room, with cold stone pressed against his back instead of sunshine. There's a knife shimmering under his chin and the hand on his shoulder is shaking his entire body, along with his injured arm.

  
           "Stop, stop it...please! My arm...it hurts, it hurts..." Draco whines pointedly.

  
           The hand jerks away, but the knife remains under his chin. A set of dark brown eyes looms over him.

  
           "Where are we?" Bellatrix's voice demands harshly and he cradles his arm to his chest again, wondering why she would be so unsympathetic, letting that comfortable, demented last bit of hope left in him cause him to believe it actually could be her and not a member of the Order of the Phoenix.

           Can't she see her nephew is in pain, lying on the ground? Where is her wand? Surely the Dark Lord has no reason to throw her in here...but, then again, he hardly sees a reason for himself to be here. He should be dead, like his father.

_And most likely his mother, by now._

           Tears well up in his eyes and his vision goes blurry. Bellatrix sighs and moves away from him to bang her fists against the wall where a door had once been.

  
           "Urgh!" she bellows heatedly and by the time the banging has stopped, Draco is no longer holding back his tears, though his nose is now runny and he wishes he had something with which he could wipe it.  
  


           Sitting with her back against the wall and breathing heavily, Bellatrix's head is hung in defeat and she gives the wall one more hard punch for good measure. Draco sits up carefully.  
  


           "Do you have a wand?"  
  


           Bellatrix inhales sharply and whips her head toward him. She obviously had forgotten Draco was here. Shame bursts inside of him and he slumps slightly, feeling pathetic.  
  


           "He took it."  
  


           There's silence for a few minutes before Draco finds his voice again.  
  


           "And Mother?"  
  


           "What?"  
  


           Bellatrix looks down at herself bemusedly, then shapes her mouth into an understanding, "Oh".  
  


           He still wants to push away the idea that popped into his head when that Death Eater came back, so he frowns at Bellatrix and thinks of something he can ask her that only she would know.  
  


           "What was the name of Mother's first owl?"  
  


           Bellatrix's eyebrows furrow and it's obvious she's confused again, but then her face relaxes and she looks away, gloomily.  
  


           "I don't know."  
  


           Draco's fingers twitch, threatening to ball into a fist at his side. His cheeks are flush with embarrassment at the thought of having cried in front of one of Potter's friends.

 

           "Who are you?"  
  


           "Bellatrix Lestrange."  
  


           "Bullocks. Who are you."  
  


           " _Bellatrix Lestrange_."  
  


           "Polyjuice potion doesn't last forever, you know. The Dark Lord is keeping Bellatrix at my manor...she wouldn't be _window-shopping_ in Diagon Alley. Whoever you are, you must have the brain of a troll."  
  


           "Well, you're certainly not the brightest bulb in the box, either."  
  


           "Not the brightest  _what_?"  
  


           "See what I mean?"  
  


           Draco opens his mouth to retort, but can't think of anything. His arm is throbbing in his lap, unable to be moved.  
  


           "What were you doing there, anyway? Trying to get at the Black fortune? You must be a mudblood, then...they're the only ones who need gold these days."  
  


           "Why do you care? Going to strangle me with one arm?"  
  


           "I knew something stunk."  
  


           "We were talking about me, not you."  
  


           There's silence and Draco wishes he could come up with something better to say, just to ensure he has the last word, but pain surges in his arm again and he hisses, fighting the urge to grab it.  
  


           "You don't fool me. You had Bellatrix's wand, so you must be one of Potter's lot...and since you're a mudblood, that rules the other two out. Not so clever now, are you, _Granger_?"  
  


           Bellatrix rolls her eyes and gets up to pace around the room, probably looking for another way out. Malfoy watches her with a narrowed gaze.

           "They'll kill you if they find out who you are."  
  


           "No shit."  
  


           The room feels a lot bigger and emptier as Bellatrix ignores him, again pounding on the walls, trying to find a way out of the room.  
  


           "Do you really think you're going to get out of here by banging your fists on the walls?"  
  


           "Well, what else am I supposed to do? Sit here and cry about my dead father?"  
  


           Bellatrix’s face slacks with guilt after she says this and Draco stares back at her, his teeth mashing together angrily, more tears stinging his eyes, desperate to pour over his cheeks again.

           "I'm sorry, I didn't mean --"  
  


           "Don't you _dare_ bring up my father! It's because of your people he's dead! It's because of _you_ I'm in this mess!"  
  


           "Oh, go ahead and blame everyone but yourself --"  
  


           "Dumbledore lied to me! He said they would protect me! None of you cares about anything but winning the war -- casualties don't make a difference as long as the world is conformed to _your_ ideals in the end!"

 

           Bellatrix opens her mouth to respond, but closes it just as quickly. After a few more seconds, she opens it again, though her lips are now beginning to thicken and her face is bulging in odd places.  
  


           The Polyjuice Potion is wearing off.  
  


           Draco smirks, leaning back and enjoying the show, waiting for Bellatrix's hair to become lighter and bushier, for her front teeth to grow past her bottom lip...yet her hair begins to recede into her scalp, getting exponentially shorter until it's a bit higher than shoulder length.  
  


          _Drastic haircut?_ Draco wonders, but he's no longer convinced. He swallows, his heartbeat jumping back into a panicked rhythm as he sees her eyes change from brown to bright green.  
  


           "No," he breathes, and a familiar feeling of hopelessness snakes its way into his stomach. It's immediately obvious to him which way the war will be headed now and he can't bring himself to deny that by this point, he wanted almost anyone but Voldemort to win. "Potter, you _idiot_!"  
  


           Using his uninjured hand to push himself off the ground, he runs full speed toward Harry, wanting nothing more than to tear his eyes out. He swings his left arm up under Harry's jaw, although it's not as hard as it could be since he's right-handed, and Harry stumbles backward in surprise before catching the next attempt at a blow that comes at him and pulling it behind Malfoy's back.

           "Ah--! Cut it out! Let go!"

           "In order for us to get out of here, we're going to have to stop fighting and work together. That means _shutting your mouth_ ," he warns, pausing before saying, "and trying not to beat my face in. Got it?"

           “Yes -- ow! -- fine, whatever you say!”

           Draco nods furiously, sweat forming like dew drops over his forehead -- anything to make Harry let go. When Harry steps away from him, he flexes his wrist and winces dramatically, making sure to let the latter know how much it hurt for him to grab his wrist like that.

           "Skeeter was right about you; you're mental."

           "And you're a git. Now, can we figure a way out of here? I don't know if you've noticed, but there's still a war going on."

           "A war that you think you're going to win. What makes you so sure? Why haven't you given up yet? The Dark Lord has hundreds of followers practiced in advanced dark magic you couldn't _possibly_ imagine...how could someone like you ever hope to beat him?"

           "You want him to win, don't you? After all he's done to you. To your family. You still think you're on the right side."

           "I’m _finished_ choosing sides! I never wanted any of this to happen! I just want it to be over so I can go home!"

           "But it _won't_ be over until someone wins. People will continue to die." Potter's eyes darken intensely, but he swallows as if hesitating to say what comes out of his mouth next. "I'm the only one who knows how to defeat him. If I die in here, Vol -- _he_ wins."

           "Why should I care who wins and who loses?"

           Malfoy hates that his voice is shaky, knows Harry can hear the doubt in it.

           "Because the world doesn't revolve around you and your mum, Malfoy. It will never be what you want it to be if you sit back and let someone else fight your battles for you. Then they're not _your_ battles, but they still affect you, whether you like it or not."

           Draco narrows his eyes, jealousy and rage coursing through his blood, spreading to every point of his body. Harry's eyes catch the dim lights overhead and twinkle at him mockingly. He hates those eyes. That sleek, carelessly-unkempt hair, straight nose, hard eyebrows, and masculine jawline. He hates the way Potter sounds so much older, as if he knows things Draco doesn't...that he's somehow always more significant than Draco in every way.

           "You think you're so _wise_. Harry Potter, The Chosen One, constantly saving the day by compensating for talent with mindless heroics and sheer dumb _luck_.

           "Dumbledore is dead. He and his friends can't swoop in and save you at the last minute. Now that the fight is yours alone, The Dark Lord will win. He will kill everyone you love until you wish he'd kill you, too. You're making it easier for him with your foolish Gryffindor bravery, your impulse to put yourself on the line for people who aren't important."

           Harry's face reddens and he clenches his teeth; Draco simpers, knowing he's struck the right cord -- his first victory in a very long time.

           "Shut your mouth, Malfoy, before I --"

           "Before you break my other arm? I'm no stranger to pain, Potter. You do what you want with me. But the day I help you with anything is the day I die."

           After his initial belligerence, a kind of pity is apparent in the dancing lights of Harry's vivid irises as he locks eyes with Malfoy, an embarrassing moment suspended in unmarked time. When he looks away, Draco is more confused and ashamed than angry -- that even Potter feels sorry for him, a feeling Draco usually triumphs in bringing out in others, but now only makes him want to hide away where no one can look at him like that ever again.

           Draco turns his back to Harry and walks shakily to the other side of the room. There's nowhere he can go to escape this new, unsettling self-disappointment he's developed. He can feel Harry staring at the back of his head, reminding him of the one thing his so-called enemies have been able to give him that Voldemort and his followers never have.

          _Compassion._

           He feels the memory of his mother's soft velvet robes encompassing his shoulders, her reassuring grip on his arms and soothing voice telling him she won't let any harm come to him as long as she lives.

            _Well, where are you_ now _, Mother?_

           It hurts to point any blame at all in his mum's direction, but the thoughts are there all the same, bitter and stagnant. The more he wills himself not to think of it, the more he does.

           "We need to get out of here. Lestrange might come back at any minute," Harry's voice breaks into his thoughts.

           "What Lestrange? You mean the man who locked us in here?"

           "I thought you were cozy with your in-laws."

           Draco scoffs, color now slowly seeping into his cheeks to turn them a light pink.

           "You know nothing about me."

           "I know more than you think."

           This statement scares Draco more than he'll ever admit. Potter's always been nosy and sneaky, able to find out things that he has no business knowing, especially when it comes to Draco. Harry is one of the rare things that can make him lose his cool, although that list seems to be getting longer recently.

           "I wouldn't be so sure, _Potter_ ," Draco snarls, instinctively.

           Even though his voice comes out strong and confident, as he intended it to, Harry somehow still looks at him as if he's unfazed by Draco's impulsive bluffing, as if his words don't mean anything at all, passing right through him like boiling water through a colander.

           It's more than perception, he thinks, slightly terrified...it's understanding. Empathy.

 

          _No wonder he's been such a thorn in The Dark Lord’s side._

           He wishes he could go back to seeing Harry as the smug, self-satisfied dunce who slung petty insults at him over a cauldron of incomprehensible sludge, but the man standing in front of him has changed somehow.

           Or maybe Draco’s the one who’s changed.

           “So...I think,” Harry starts, clearing his throat and switching his scrutiny from Draco to the wall again, “we should wait until he comes back, then jump him and grab his wand. Do you remember how we got in here?”

           Draco nods and walks over to where the door had been when one of the Lestranges entered, gesturing toward it with his left hand.

           “A door appeared, right here.”

           “Okay. So, you sit over there,” he demands calmly, pointing to the left side of where Draco indicated, “and I’ll sit here. We can sleep in shifts, and if one of us sees the door start to open, we’ll wake the other up.”

           “Why do _you_ get to make all the demands? Do I have a say in this?”

           “All right. If you have a better plan, then let’s hear it.”

           Draco rolls his eyes because he's unable to cross his arms, adopting an absurdly-childish demeanor as he admits silently that Potter has won this argument.

           “Fine. You take first watch.”

           “You’re going to sleep already?”

           “Yes. Have you got a problem with that?”

           Harry pauses minutely then exhales and sits on the floor, cross-legged.

           “No. None at all. Go ahead.”

           “Thank you, oh _gracious_ Potter, for giving me _permission_ to _sleep_.”

           “Don’t worry about it,” the latter responds with an exhausted, sarcastic drawl. Draco doesn’t feel nearly tired enough to sleep yet, but he lies down and closes his eyes, anyway, if only to have an excuse not to communicate with Harry. After only an hour, however, due to the relaxation of his breath, or the unsettling silence of the room, he ends up drifting off.

           When his eyes are open again, he’s shivering and a wave of cold air attacks his body as if he’s stepped through a ghost. Harry is in the same place as before, shivering as well and leaning with his back against the wall now, his dark circles prominent against his Winter-paled skin.

           The steady rhythm of teeth chattering against teeth overpowers the silence of the room and Harry must hear it, too, because he looks up at Malfoy and frowns. His jaw is twitching, as if his teeth are also chattering.

           Great. Just what they need, another way to die.

           His stomach rumbles violently, reminding him of the first way, and he shuts his eyes tightly against the nausea and pain of hunger. Potter is hugging himself so tightly it looks as if he's trying to hold his ribs in place; Draco follows suit, but the small bit of warmth that comes from it isn't nearly enough to appease him. It doesn't seem to be working for Harry, either.

           "Shouldn't he be back by now?" Draco says irritably through his teeth. He wishes now, more than ever, that he had a wand, or somehow knew how to cast wandless spells.

           As though Draco's said this out loud, Harry is flicking his finger about in front of him, as he would a wand, and muttering different spells for conjuring fire. Nothing is happening.

           " _Incendio_! _Callus proximus_!"

           "It's not going to work."

           " _Incendio_!"

           "You can't --"

           "We have to try!" Harry cries out deafeningly, his fists slamming against the floor at his sides. "It _won't_ end like this!"

           Draco looks down at the ground, fear swallowing his heart after hearing the word, "end" pass through Potter's lips.

           Hugging himself more tightly, he thinks this is probably the perfect time to die. His father is gone, and his mum likely is, too. He's been torturing people for You-Know-Who and trying unsuccessfully to be a murderer -- constantly doing what others have told him to do, but never doing it well enough.

           Too many truths have dawned on his inherent sense of importance: A muggleborn has beaten him in every school test for six years; being a Death Eater is more terrifying and degrading than it is exciting, as he'd desperately hoped it would be a year ago; and his enemies have shown him more kindness than even his father had.

           He's had to learn that death is traumatizing, not exhilarating, and wants to stay away from it at all costs.

           What is he left with? He's dedicated his entire life to supporting rationales that seem to have huge, unavoidable flaws. He hasn't been spending his time at Hogwarts preparing for an actual career because he thought all he wanted to be was a Death Eater like his father. He isn't ready to speak his mind to anyone -- he's not even sure what that would entail, since not one of his opinions, it seems, is set in stone.

           He's been thrown carelessly into this room to die of hypothermia or hunger. There may be no one out there wondering where he is, because nothing would change if he were to make it out of this situation alive, unlike Potter, who carries the expected outcome of the war on his shoulders like a flag to which people blindly salute. They don't see an inexperienced, foolhardy, seventeen-year-old boy when they swear their allegiance. They only see a mysterious prophecy that no one's actually heard, yet is somehow accepted to mean that Harry is the one chosen by fate to vanquish The Dark Lord once and for all.

           Even without the prophecy, Harry still has real friends worrying about him somewhere -- friends he made through common interest, and not through politics. This is something Draco has never really had. Even if Harry had accepted his offer of friendship in their first year, it would not be because he was fond of Draco in any way. It would be because Draco offered something he thought Harry wanted, a familiar face in a hall of strangers, and Draco would always know that this offer was predisposed, not something he'd decided to do on his own.

           As his hands start to go completely numb, he tucks his left under his armpit (unable to move the right), if not to save his life, then to save himself from the unpleasantness of frostbite.

           His watery grey eyes drag toward Harry and see, again, that he is doing the same thing. The most primal instincts of humans are identical.

           "Why didn't you tell your friends how to defeat him? You just believed you'd never die?"

           Harry doesn't respond, either because he's shivering too much or he doesn't know what to say. It's then that Draco sees the white flecks falling onto his torn robes. Disgusted, he thinks of dandruff, but then he tilts his head upward and sees that the flecks are coming from the ceiling. _Snowflakes?_

           He makes brief eye contact with Harry, trying to see if it's snowing on him as well, but the minuscule balls of frost only seem to be falling onto his own head and not in any other part of the room.

          "Are you making it --" he starts, but Draco interrupts him.

           "-- Snow? Apparently. Oh, for Merlin's sake..."

           "So, this room locks in everything, including temperature."

           "But it was cold _before_ it started to snow!"

           "Well, you must be doing something!"

           "I swear, I'm not doing anything!"

           "Oh, yeah, I forgot that snow can conjure itself."

           "It's not as though I _want_ to freeze my arse off!"

           Draco rubs his hands over his upper arms and tucks his chin into the high collar of his shirt, which was once white and tasteful, but is now shredded and covered in his own dried blood. He wonders how long it will be before an infection starts to set in, but knows that dehydration will be the thing that kills him first.

           Another flurry of snowflakes drops into his lap and his eyes widen excitedly as he realizes what a miracle it actually is to have _frozen water_ falling from the ceiling!

           Immediately, he holds his mouth open for the snow, allowing it to fall onto his tongue and melt into drops of drinkable water.

           "Brilliant!" Harry exclaims, rushing over to join Malfoy with his hands cupped.

           As his shoulder is pressed up against Malfoy's in pursuit of water, the warmth of another body seeps in through his clothing and the grin he's sporting in reaction to finding out he won't at least die of dehydration fades into a contemplative frown.

           Harry must sense it, too, because he pulls away from the snow and leans his back against the wall, silently. After staring out at the room blankly for a good three minutes, they dare a glance at each other and an unwelcome idea presents itself without words: using each other for warmth.

           When this idea is understood, they quickly divert their gazes to the floor, but remain where they are.

           "I'll just, er --" Harry starts.

           "What? No, you..." Draco reacts as Harry turns suddenly, raising his arm for some kind of embrace. He catches the arm with his left and manages to keep Harry where he is with an unconvincingly-dark expression.

           "You stay there. Don't do... _that_. Whatever you were trying to do."

           "I thought...nevermind."

           Malfoy feels his face start to heat up, but Harry doesn't notice.

           "Let's not get _too_ comfortable yet, yeah?"

           There's a pause, and then Harry starts laughing quietly; Malfoy finds the corners of his lips twitching upward of their own accord, followed by an uncontrollable chuckle.

          The warmth coming from Harry seems a million times more potent and when they stop laughing, their teeth stop chattering, although they continue to shiver. Something foreign has connected them for the time being, and maybe it's just the physical feeling of sitting so close together, but Draco thinks their seven-year-long feud doesn't feel quite so ominous anymore, judging them like a set of eyes in the corner of the room.

           In his mind, he goes back to his first day at Hogwarts. He knows now, after many years of revisiting this memory, that the old saying is true: You can't choose your friends. Even if he had phrased his offer differently, or been nicer to Potter, their beliefs would have inevitably clashed.

           Draco was never meant to be brave and daring, to stand alongside Potter as he risked his life without thinking first. No, he's a Slytherin through and through, just like his parents. Harry and Draco, because of the people they were raised to be, were never supposed to share jokes instead of curses. They have been on separate paths from day one.

           "Why did they put you in here? Why didn't they just..."

           Harry holds back the rest of his sentence, but Draco knows exactly what he was going to ask. Why is Draco here and not dead?

           "I don't know. I woke up and I was here."

           His throat constricts painfully; he hadn't noticed he was holding back more tears. In truth, his last memory was the piercing wails of his mother's grief as Lucius' consciousness left his body.

           Draco finds himself leaning negligibly closer to Harry as more snowflakes fall onto their tattered clothing, just because he can. Even if it's _Potter_ , he's thankful for someone whose every shaky breath reminds him that he's not alone. Oh, well. It's optimistic to think he'll have plenty of time to feel bad about it later.

           Somehow, he feels safer now that Harry is here, because he knows Harry is always stubbornly prone to do the right thing. Unlike the many other family friends or fellow Death Eaters with whom he's been having to interact, he realizes he doesn't have to watch his own back constantly because Harry is tediously good. He dodges debauchery just like cracks in pavement, maintaining his image by genuinely always wanting to put himself before others: vanilla cake with vanilla icing, tooth-decayingly sweet and simple. And Draco is well aware that too much of Harry will make him sick.

           The chill in the room comes in waves, causing Harry and Draco to wrap their arms around themselves and stay close together. Soon, their teeth are chattering again and the emptiness of Draco's stomach starts to make him feel woozy.

           He sneaks a glance at Harry, who has his eyes closed. Only about a year ago, his vulnerability would have been exciting -- Draco would get the praise he deserved and might outrank even his father...handing Harry over to The Dark Lord was something he dreamed about every night, thinking it was the solution to all of his problems.

          _It's definitely still a possibility_ , he muses. But the idea fills him with the worst kind of anxiety -- his heart starts to throw itself around in his chest and his lungs ignore his pleading to _let him keep breathing_ , _let him keep breathing_.

           He hasn't quite pinpointed why he's so terrified about the outcome of the war. It could be his seething anger toward You-Know-Who for effectively ruining Draco's life, or it could also be he truly doesn't want their world to be taken over by psychopaths like Fenrir Greyback.

           But, there's another possibility making undesirable appearances in his head: Harry, this boy with a handsome, gentle face pressed against his side, who pities him even after all their fighting, who automatically included Draco in the escape plan, as if he didn't even consider leaving him here to die...

           Draco knows where these feeble thoughts lead. He's pretty sure he doesn't have it in him to turn Harry over to Voldemort anymore, and it's just another thing he can add to the increasing number of reasons to be disappointed in the person he's become.

           How did he end up being so insignificant? His entire life he was told he was special because of his blood, wealth, and status. Yet, Granger's a better witch than he is a wizard, his current status is enough to make everyone but the Death Eaters despise him, and what the hell is money good for right now? He can't eat it, it won't make him warm, and it won't get him out of this room. Everything he's been so proud of seems entirely useless and it's confusing. Did his parents know this? Or were they just stupid?

           He starts to sniffle again and his eyes swell with quiet tears. Knowing Harry is probably asleep and won't be able to see, he still turns his head away.

           As his luck would have it, Harry's eyes blink open and he looks at the back of Malfoy's head for a moment before looking away and letting breath out through his partially-closed lips. Malfoy tries to pretend Harry's still sleeping, because he needs to be able to let himself go right now.

           It feels like seventeen years of misery is trying to pour out of him.

           There are seconds while he's struggling to keep himself from crying in which he wants to hurt Harry for not having anything to cry about, too, and seconds in which he just wishes he could fast forward time, skip his suffering and let his soul leave his crumpled, bony body lying in a heap on the floor to decompose.

** **

           The tears don't last as long as he expects them to, thankfully, and when his eyes are dry, he wipes his cheeks and nose on his sleeve, which should be revolting, but now only seems necessary.

           Draco hides his face in his arms and takes deep, silent breaths, trying to steady his breathing. He can feel Harry shift uneasily beside him, but tells himself he doesn't care. Although he's very good at disguising his emotions and Harry would never be able to tell that he's been crying, he should know that not everyone has the strength, nor the support that he does, and Draco is one of those exceptions, because Draco hadn't needed any of that until the war came along and The Dark Lord called upon him to take his father's place and do his spitefully-impossible bidding.

           He wants so badly to continue to blame Harry for this decision, but he's not as delightfully ignorant as he was when he was sixteen. Being a Death Eater was always in his future and he took lots of pride in that, because that was what made his father so important and admirable.

           In many ways, he still wishes he were like his father. If he were implacable enough to kill, he'd be in a better place right now. If he were completely set on an opinion for the new world Voldemort is trying to create, he would not be addled with guilt and regret.

           But, Lucius hadn't been so calm and collected when Burbage had been murdered in front of them. Perhaps Lucius had never killed at all. Why is that thought making him feel better about his father? Shouldn't it make him feel more ashamed, that his father was a weakling like Draco, who isn't even able to cast the Cruciatus Curse on someone without having consistent nightmares about it afterward? But, Lucius has cast many Cruciatus Curses and never felt a thing; Draco knows this for sure.

           So, it must be just him, then. Destined for greatness, with the bravado of the Malfoy name propelling him forward, but somehow failing horribly to fit into the mold expected of him.

           "We'll be out of here soon. We aren't going to die."

           "Well, if I don't die in here, I'll just die out there, won't I? Both sides want me dead now. I have nowhere to go, and my mother's probably..."

           He can't bring himself to say this fear out loud, because he doesn't want it to be true. Some part of him thinks that if he believes his mum is alive, she will be.

           "You think I'd leave you here just because we don't get along? Our side -- we're not like them, Draco. We want to help. Why can't you trust us? You don't really want to go back to torturing people for Vol -- You-Know-Who, do you?"

           "How do _you_ know what I did for him?"

           Harry looks down at the ground, avoiding Draco's gaze.

           "It doesn't matter."

           "No, I want to know. Have you been _spying_ on me? I mean, I wouldn't be surprised. You always did like sticking your nose where it doesn't belong."

           "No, I haven't been spying on you. I have much bigger issues than some kid who decided to make his life a living hell."

           "Maybe hell for you, but it was _fine_ for me."

           Harry chuckles and shakes his head, blowing air through his lips.

           "Right. Of course. It must be fantastic, being You-Know-Who's puppet. I'd _love_ if he made me do things he knew I couldn't do, then killed my father, to top it all off! Oh, wait! He has!"

           "Your dead parents guilt trip shit won't work on me, Potter. I don't _care_ what's happened to you."

           Harry keeps laughing and shaking his head and Draco feels himself blushing furiously. If he were in more of a position to do so, he'd wipe that smile right off Potter's face with a good hex.

            "You're unbelievable."

            It's frustrating that he can't get a rise out of Harry anymore. It used to be incredibly easy -- just a few well-placed words, a crack on his parents, on the mudblood, or the Weasel, if he wasn't standing alongside Harry, which he always was. Now it's apparent Harry's grown past all that and Malfoy's the least of his worries.

           "You grew up with muggles, yeah? That's what my father said...tell me, was it difficult to breathe with them stinking up the house?"

           "Not every muggle is like my aunt and uncle. There are plenty of nice ones out there, Malfoy, as impossible as it may seem to you. And I'm sure if they could have magic, they would want to, but we don't choose the way we're born. They don't choose not to have magic, just like you didn't choose to be born into a family of pompous twats."

           "Talk about my family again, Potter, and I _swear_ I'll have your tongue."

           "Oh, calm down, you prat. I don't get the same kind of joy out of making people suffer as you do."

           "Keep running your mouth and you'll see _exactly_ how much I like making people suffer."

           "I'm terrified."

           "Don't mock me. If we had our wands, you'd be on your back in less than five minutes."

           "Is that a challenge?"

           "Could be. We'll see when we get out of here, won't we?"

           "All right. What are the stakes?"

           "If I win, you give me back my wand."

           "How do you know I have your wand?"

           "I'm not stupid. You were the one who disarmed me at the Manor."

           "Fair enough. And if I win...you never say the word, 'mudblood' again."

           "What's to stop me from saying it around everyone but you?"

           "I'll ask Hermione for help."

           "But, she could be dead, for all you know."

           Harry flinches and visibly swallows -- when he looks at Draco, his eyes seem to be looking at something else.

           "She'll be okay. She can handle anything."

           Draco reaches into the recesses of his brain for something particularly nasty to say, but Harry's crestfallen expression makes him falter, and he restrains the comment, which is something he never does with Potter, especially where his friends are concerned.

           The silences that follow their sporadic conversations are expected now. Unfortunately for Draco, when he and Potter aren't bantering, his thoughts take over and press him into the ground with their formidable weight. So, instead of letting it linger, Draco fishes for some kind of question that will grasp Harry's attention.

 

           "Why are you trying to help me?"

 

           Harry takes his time responding, as though he's imagining each word and lining it up in his mind before he says it out loud.

 

           "I know what it's like to lose a parent."

 

           "I don't need your help."

 

           "Yes, you do. Shut up and admit it."

 

           "Not everyone needs saving! Merlin, what is it with you!"

 

           "So, you'd rather me leave you all alone, without anywhere to go. That sounds like fun to you."

 

           "I'd rather be alone than have _you_ trailing behind my back, watching everything I do."

 

           "You know what? Fine. You want to go off and cry yourself to death in some ditch somewhere, that's bloody fantastic. Have fun. I'm sick of trying to be nice to you."

 

           "Good. Fine."

 

           Draco frowns and crosses his arms; it feels as if water is coming down from the walls, pooling around him until it's up to his neck, pressing against his chest, bringing him close to suffocating. He can imagine a plug just in front of him, stuck into the floor, but he won't pull it. He'd rather drown than pull it.

 

           As he wallows blindly in self-pity, tears threatening to launch themselves out of the corners of his eyes, Potter stares at him intently, then sighs.

 

           "For fuck's sake, Malfoy. The world isn't going to end if you let me help you. You don't have to give up your pride to admit you're wrong. In fact, that's probably the only thing that will allow you to keep it."

 

           "Quit preaching to me. It won't work."

 

           "Then grow the hell up!"

 

           "What do you want me to say? You want me to start holding hands with muggles, go against everything I've been taught to believe? Well, I won't do it! I'd rather rot than fight with the likes of _you_!"

 

           "I'm not saying you have to fight with me, or hold hands with muggles, or anything like that. I just want you to let us protect you."

 

           "Like Dumbledore said he'd protect me? Yeah, no thanks. I'll take my chances."

 

           "You can't survive the war all by yourself, in the kind of position you're in. You-Know-Who is after me, too, if you haven't realized."

 

           "Great. That _really_ makes me want to hang around you."

 

           "It means that I know how to avoid him, and I can help you do the same. I have a safe place you can stay. Mind, the people there might not be so happy to see you, but I know they'll take care of you until someone can find your mum."

 

           At the mention of his mum, Draco's breath hitches and his throat cinches agonizingly. When he speaks, his voice cracks and wavers. He tries his best to fight through the thought of not having her in his life so he can croak out a response.

 

           "You're talking about me like I'm a child. I'm an _adult_. I can take care of myself."

 

           "Look. Sometimes people just need someone to pull them up off the ground. I'm offering you a hand here. All you have to do is take it."

 

           The most perceptible silence that has occurred so far follows this statement and Draco is aware that Potter is carefully observing him as he turns his head away and fights back even more tears.

  

           After a few minutes of painful swallowing, Draco finds that his enemy is his only comfort right now, an emollient of emanating warmth and forgiveness that he hasn't even sought. It makes his soul ache to become the kind of person who would deserve such unadulterated care. But, when he's calmed down enough to stop shunning his overpowering emotions, he remembers exactly the kind of person he is, and the kind of person Harry is, and that warmth gives way to frigid air that blows right through him as if he's composed of nothing but thin paper.

 

           Harry's arm twitches and Draco is forced to face the fact that his wordless admonition of weakness is also his way of saying, _Yes, I need help. I just don't know how to say so yet._ Harry looks at the ground, not even close to understanding this, and Draco repeats a mantra of reassurance in his head until his mind is more willing to drift off to sleep than believe its own thoughts.

 

 

\---------------------------

 

           When he wakes up, his stomach feels as though it's eating through itself. He knows he doesn't have much time left. Both of them are going to die very soon.

 

           He's late to notice that his head has been slumped on Harry's shoulder, which makes him jump away immediately before his uncontrollable shivering forces him back to where he was. Harry is startled out of his own nap with the commotion and Draco wonders if he'll notice the tiny drool stain on his shoulder, but he doesn't seem to.

 

           Vaguely, he takes into account the fact that there isn't any snow falling onto his head anymore, which is both a good thing and a very, very bad thing. Without water, they could die within a day or two.

 

           His tongue and mouth feel like hot, dry sand. It hurts to swallow. It hurts to move his tongue. He's not sure if there's even any saliva left in him at all.

 

           "We're never going to get out of here," Draco thinks out loud.

 

           "Don't say that! He could come back any minute."

 

           The room around them is rippling and tilting absurdly, though he can tell he's completely stationary. It's just difficult to find out which way is the ceiling, and which way is the roof...

 

           "If we die in here, Potter --"

 

           "We are _not_ going to die in here!"

 

           " _If_ we die in here, I want you to know that you've proven to be...tolerable."

 

           The words that come from his mouth sound as if they're being yelled at Harry from a mile away. Somehow that makes them less real, less significant. He can feel somewhere in the most reclusive parts of his brain that everything happening right now is in some distant, alternate dimension and it won't impact his own life or Potter's in any way.

 

           "You're scaring me."

  

           A minute goes by and his head pounds as though someone's hammering a nail in both of his temples.

 

           "I feel light-headed..." Draco groans and Harry scrunches his eyes up as if fighting a headache as well.

 

           "We need to get out of here. Soon."

 

           "Oh, really?"

 

           All of a sudden, the wall pressed against their back vibrates. Harry reacts immediately, standing up and assuming a ready stance. Draco stumbles a little as he follows suit. It's difficult to stand up when the floor is wobbling precariously under his feet.

 

           Harry makes some sort of hand signal to him that he can't quite make sense of, then the door appears in the wall and opens between them, revealing a disheveled-looking girl with bushy brown hair and buckteeth.

 

           "Hermione?"

 

           " _Harry!_ "

 

           The girl rushes toward Harry and throws her arms around him. Then there's a patch of fire, light, or red hair coming through the doorway and the room starts to become darker, slipping away from him like the open end of a long tunnel.

 

           "Malfoy? Malfoy!"

 

 


	2. Inherently Incomplete

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"He smiled understandingly -- much more than understandingly. It was one of those rare smiles with a quality of eternal reassurance in it, that you may come across four or five times in life. It faced -- or seemed to face -- the whole eternal world for an instant, and then concentrated on you with an irresistible prejudice in your favor. It understood you just as far as you wanted to be understood, believed in you as you would like to believe in yourself, and assured you that it had precisely the impression of you that, at your best, you hoped to convey." --_ The Great Gatsby, _F. Scott Fitzgerald_

"I want that git out of here as soon as possible!"

 

           "He needs our help! We can't just leave him to fend for himself; he has nowhere to go!"

 

           Draco blinks open his heavy eyelids and finds that he's in a stranger's bed watching Potter, Weasley, and Granger argue.

 

           "Harry, I know you feel bad for him, but we can't risk having him here," Hermione whines, ever the annoying voice of reason.

 

           "He's a Death Eater, for Merlin's sake! He's dangerous!" Ron yells, a prime example of the opposite: impulse and emotion before reason.

 

           "Dangerous? He doesn't even have a wand!"

 

           And then there's Harry, a perfect mixture of the two.

 

           "His foul mouth's enough of a weapon, don't you think?"

 

           "Ron, please. This isn't the time."

 

           "Look, I'll find somewhere for him to go. I just need a few days."

 

           "Well, we don't have a few days! You're so concerned about saving him, you're forgetting about the, the... _things_!"

 

           Ron whispers the end of his sentence as if the word, "things" is a decent choice of vocabulary that's supposed to mean something. Deciding he's heard enough of their bickering over him, Draco clears his throat and sits up. All three of their heads whip around immediately and before he can do anything, the mudblood points her wand at him and shouts, " _Incarcerous_!"

 

           "Hey! What the hell are you doing!" he cries, struggling against the thick, black ropes that have coiled around his wrists.

 

           She ignores him and turns to Harry, who looks torn between snapping at Hermione and praising her.

 

           "If he's going to stay here, he's going to have to be restrained. I don't trust him."

 

           "Good call, Hermione. He'd probably strangle us all in our sleep," Ron adds furiously.

 

           "No, because that would require _touching_ all of you. I doubt there's any spell powerful enough to wash that kind of filth off my hands," Draco interjects, just to see Ron's face contort in anger. He lunges at Draco, but Harry holds him back.

 

           "I don't believe this. We let him sleep in _our_ bed, use _our_ potions, and the minute he wakes up, he insults us!"

 

           "Hermione, can you take him into the other room for a bit?"

 

           "I don't know, Harry. I really don't think it's a good idea to leave you alone with him..."

 

           "I'll be fine. Unless he turns out to be a giant snake -- I don't know, do you hear him talking in hisses?"

 

            "Might as well be!" Ron adds, but the other two ignore him.

 

           Hermione smiles worriedly and concedes without words to take Ron into the hallway, leaving Harry and Draco alone in this tiny, plainly-decorated room.

 

           “How much of our conversation did you hear?” Harry asks gravely.

   

           “Why do you want to know?”

 

           “I want to know because we need to discuss this. But, if you heard us, then you already know where to start.”

 

           After a moment of contemplating Potter's words, Malfoy wrinkles his nose and waves a hand in front of his face.

 

           “What is that _horrid_ stench? Is Granger right outside the door?”

 

           “Knock it off, Malfoy. This is important,” Harry reprimands irritably.

 

           Draco frowns and lets his eyes run the expanse of Harry’s body, sizing him up. He’s wearing baggy hand-me-downs, like always, and it’s extremely unflattering.

 

           “Fine. I heard your little conversation. The Weasel wants me out of here, Beaver Teeth thinks I’m dangerous, and you, always the hero, want to help me. What a surprise. Well, I’m not too keen on sticking around, either, so if you release my arms, I’d be _happy_ to leave.”

 

           “You aren't going anywhere until I find out what to do with you. I will _not_ have your death on my hands.”

 

           “I'm not an object! If I want to leave, I'll do whatever the fuck I please!"

 

           "Are you listening to me? You'll die out there!"

 

           "I'm not incompetent, Potter. I am perfectly capable of being on my own, without my mother and without _you_."

 

           “That's not the whole point, Malfoy, although I'm sure you wouldn't last two seconds out there by yourself. The problem is I brought you here and now you know where we are. Ron and Hermione aren’t the only ones who don’t trust you,” Harry elaborates after a drawn-out sigh.

 

           “You're just going to keep me here until I die, then? So I can grow old surrounded by a billion seashells and hideous color schemes?”

 

           Harry’s lips twitch upward for a brief second, but he tries to cover it up with an overcompensating frown. Draco hears the echo of a rock thudding at the bottom of his stomach; he can’t tell if Harry finds him amusing or childish and wretched. Probably the latter.

 

           “You leave when we leave. Simple as that.”

 

           Exhaustion grasps him with its firm, demanding hands. He can tell without a mirror that he must look like a wreck. His slim, toned figure is now sharp with jutting bones and he’s worried he could probably feel his spine through his stomach, but he hasn’t tried yet.

 

           "Do you have any food in this place? It's sort of been a while."

 

           "Hermione left something by the bed. I think it's still hot."

 

           Turning to his left, Draco sees a small bowl of greyish glop and, after a lot of fumbling, takes it into his hands, frowning at it distastefully.

 

           "Ugh, what is this? This isn't food. This is goop."

 

           "It's oatmeal, and you'll eat it or you'll starve. We didn't have a lot of time to prepare anything because you were unconscious, which we fixed, by the way. You could be a little more grateful."

 

           Draco purses his lips grandiloquently, an expression he knows Potter's all too familiar with, and starts shoveling the tasteless substance into his mouth as quickly as possible, considering his hands are still tied together.

 

           "There's more in the kitchen," Harry says, making Draco look up at him somewhat guiltily. If he had shown manners like that in front of his parents, he would definitely have been scolded. Yet, Harry acts as if all is normal. Draco supposes it is normal for someone who hasn't eaten for a week to suck down food like this, but Harry's acceptance is still discombobulating. It takes a moment for his thoughts to clear away enough for Draco to see Harry's face, which is shaped around weary, almond-shaped eyes and set above strong, muscular shoulders. He's calm and collected, waiting patiently for a response.

 

           Draco twitches and prepares to stand up and walk into the kitchen to get more food for some reason, then thinks twice. Even if he were allowed out of this room, he couldn't _possibly_ pass up an opportunity to watch Potter wait on him, so, Draco holds the bowl out for Harry and, unsurprisingly, Harry takes it. He returns shortly with more oatmeal and a cup of water, which he points to after placing both of them on the table and says, "Drink. You passed out yesterday."

 

           Draco doesn't argue. He eats the oatmeal and swallows the water in one huge gulp. For the first time in about a week, he feels full.

 

           "I'm going to go talk with the others. Hermione's cast enchantments on the room, so you can try to leave all you want, but it's a waste of energy."

 

           The now-empty glass in his hand reflects Draco's sickly features and he's disgusted with the way he looks. His hair is ratty, he hasn't showered in ages, and his cheeks are so hollow they make him seem like a skeleton with a minimal amount of flesh.

 

           "I need more water."

 

           He doesn't look up at Harry until he sees a familiar length of wood being extracted from his pocket and pointed at Draco's glass. The dark, polished Hawthorn bark is unmistakeable. Wizards can recognize their own wands as though they are physical extensions of themselves and when he sees his wand in Harry's hands, it's like seeing him hold an arm of Draco's that's been amputated.

 

           "I'll be taking that before I leave."

 

           "No, not necessarily. A deal's a deal. You'll have to win it back, fair and square."

 

           Draco's temper starts to burn, a tiny flame flickering from an ember that's been a part of him ever since he met Harry.

 

           "But it's _my_ wand! It chose _me_ at Ollivander's! I'm the one it's loyal to, not you!"

 

           "Not anymore. Wands will change loyalty if they're won outright."

 

           "That doesn't excuse the fact that it chose me! It probably doesn't even work for you!"

 

           "It works just fine, actually. I'd prefer my own, but that's not really possible anymore."

 

           "Why not?"

 

           "It's a long story."

 

           "Well, what wand do I get, then?"

 

           "None until you leave," Harry states firmly as he walks toward the door. "All right, If you need anything, just, er...yell, I guess."

 

           Through narrowed eyes, Draco watches as Harry leaves, his huge T-Shirt rippling around him. Then the room is quiet and Draco is alone. There are certain times when Draco likes being alone (which is a common occurrence as an only child) and certain times he doesn't. Recently, he's hated it. He has too many thoughts and nothing he can use to block them out. Having Harry and his friends around counts as much as a rock sitting in the corner. Or a crummy seashell, in this case.

 

           Pansy was good at distracting him, although she was too dull and slow-witted for his tastes. At the end of the day, she served only one purpose to him, much to her dismay: She was a body willing to open up to him intimately, exposed skin under sheets on nights when he felt troubled. He always kept her close enough to feel as if she was wanted, but at enough of a distance that she knew almost nothing about his private life and never tried to find a reason as to why he occasionally came into her dorm room seeking sex.

 

           Draco misses those nights. The world seems disturbingly unfamiliar now that the things with which he regularly comforted himself are gone. He almost wants to go back to before Hogwarts, when he was ignorant of life's true intentions and the malevolence that dwells in the very fabric of human nature -- when all he thought about was how many hours he had left to play before bedtime and his only wish was for days to be longer, unencumbered by simple things like needing to sleep. Now he wants to sleep all the time, just to get away from the eventualities that plague his conscience: He will be caught, he will be killed, and he will be alone. One of those eventualities keeps dragging behind him like a stubborn shadow, unable to be shaken off.

 

           Harry comes back and, much to Draco's surprise, casually undoes the ropes bound around his wrists with a simple counter-curse. Then he sets some robes, a towel, and a plastic bag at the foot of Draco's bed, scratching the back of his neck nervously afterward.

 

           "You should, er...take a shower. Here's some clothes. There's a bathroom through that door, right there."

 

           Harry indicates a door with his hand, but Draco's busy looking at the clothes and the bag full of toiletries. He finds that he doesn't have it in him to fight against any of it, and he even feels the urge to thank Harry, but the second he tastes the words on his tongue, he's repulsed by them. Alternatively, he asks a question.

 

           "What did they say?"

 

           Harry drags his front teeth over his bottom lip, calculating what his response should be. Draco knows from this observation that Harry will be omitting information, which is something he wouldn't expect Harry to be good at, but he accepts it because he knows he'd do the same.

 

           "They aren't happy. None of us are. But, we've agreed that it's best you stay here for a bit until we can work something out."

 

           "Will Granger be tying me up again?"

 

           "No, although she definitely would have done if I didn't convince her otherwise. You just have to stay in this room. That's the deal."

 

           "And what if I don't agree with this 'deal'?"

 

           "Then tough shit," Harry says, distracted as he moves to look more closely at a book on the bedside table. Draco watches his eyes glisten with something he can recognize as grief and Harry takes a cautious step backward, palpably trying to take his mind off whatever it is. Draco realizes he's never seen Harry show any emotion other than anger before and it's almost embarrassing, as if he's walked in on something he shouldn't be able to see. It makes his own eyes water when it finally hits him that Harry's affected by all these stories the Death Eaters and his father have told him -- that they're not just stories, they're real things that have happened to Harry, things he has to deal with every day. He stares in disbelief, wanting to keep his questions to himself, but letting himself ask them, anyway.

 

           "How do you do it?"

 

           Harry looks puzzled as his absent gaze falls from his memories to Draco.

 

           "How do I do what?"

 

           "How do you deal with everything that's happened? Don't you ever get upset, throw things, cry, any of that?"

 

           In the moment that it takes Harry to formulate a proper response, Draco wants to look at the book and see what's causing him to act like this, but Harry's expression is so conflicted that he can't rip his gaze away. He has the urge to pinpoint every feeling Harry is experiencing and figure out why he's experiencing it. He could use legilimency, of course, if he had a wand, but he's never been as good a legilimens as he is an occlumens.

 

           "At first, when you lose someone you love, it feels like the world shouldn't keep moving like it is. It feels wrong to look around and see people having a good time, carrying on with their business when your own world's been torn apart. But, eventually, you start to understand there are things in life that try to break you, and these things happen to everyone. You just have to find something that keeps you from being broken."

 

           Harry's mint-green eyes swim with squares of light that have reflected off his glasses and Draco's throat feels tight; no one's ever bothered to relinquish anything so obviously personal to him, and he can tell that he doesn't have to go through the struggle of letting Harry in on his worries or troubles because Harry understands completely without having to hear them out loud. Harry has discovered loss much more than Draco has. His life began with it.

 

           Draco continues looking at Harry with his mouth open slightly, not knowing what to say. He's got plenty of old insults lined up in the back of his brain, but that seems childish now. Both of them are adults. Both of them have faced the harsh realities of this war and are suffering together from a sworn distance. Harry sighs and moves toward the door again.

 

           "I'll try to bring you some tea when you've finished showering."

 

           "Okay."

 

           Then he's gone and the room is empty again. Draco's aching body screams to be graced with hot water, but curiosity is overpowering. Before getting up, he takes the pile of things Harry gave him into his lap and looks at the book that had caught Harry's attention. Written on the cover in an unintelligibly messy scrawl is some kind of message, which he gives up on trying to read after looking over the words five times, and underneath is the signature of Sirius Black with a sketch of a paw print right next to it. Instantly a memory resurfaces: His father laughing coldly as he told Draco about the big, black dog on Platform 9 3/4 and who he actually was; Draco laughing, too, and thinking, _I hope he gets caught. It would serve Potter right._

 

           He's been so consumed by his feud with Potter, he never bothered to understand the person with whom he was feuding. But, he's beginning to, whether he likes it or not.

 

           The shower is roomy and so much more elegant than the rest of the bathroom that it seems out of place. The faucet is a phoenix, which is irritatingly fitting, although he's not even sure whose house he's in. He just knows it has to be an Order member's. The tiles are goldish-beige and every here and there, one of them is decorated with a mermaid or a seashell. Deciding to take a bath instead of a shower, he lies back in the tub and holds his hands under the phoenix's beak, exhaling noisily as he feels the soothing heat tumble over his fingers. That's when he realizes that his arm is healed. He can probably thank Granger for that.

 

           He's only left with bruises and sore muscles now, uninjured for the first time in weeks. It's incomprehensibly strange to him that Harry and his friends would go through so much trouble to make sure Draco was all right because he knows he would never do the same for any of them if it required any effort. Honestly, if Voldemort had the power to bring his father back to life in exchange for Harry Potter, he'd definitely consider handing him over. It's easier to imagine a world with his parents in it, no matter what would be happening outside of his manor. Yet, he's positive if he actually had to kill Harry himself, he wouldn't be able to do it. He's ashamed to admit that he's all talk in that department. He couldn't kill if his life depended on it.

 

           The tub fills with water and steam floats away from the surface, fogging up the mirror and leaving condensation droplets on the painted tiles. As he looks down at his naked body, his worries are confirmed: his ribs are more visible than they've ever been and the small bit of muscle he worked hard to develop has disappeared. It's sickening. He hopes sincerely that no one has to see him like this anytime soon, but of course no one will. There's not a single person on Earth who wants to see him like this.

 

           He sits in the bathtub for about twenty minutes, until he's choking on the humidity and decides he feels unclean sitting in his own filth, which makes him take a shower right afterward. He chooses colder water this time, to balance out the hot. The effect is equally as relaxing. Part of his normal routine would be to wank at this point, but the entire situation is too exhausting to think about anything like that. Just trying to put a face to a body in his imagination is tiring right now, not to mention he's been having all sorts of problems sticking to fantasies that strictly involve women. But, he can't think about that now. He's got more pressing issues than his elusive sexuality.

 

           The next few hours are horribly uneventful. Draco has a difficult time being bored and usually likes to sleep through it, but he isn't tired enough to do that. The best option he has is to look through the book with Sirius' signature on it, which frustratingly turns out to be a cookbook written completely in French. He's been to France a few times, but he's never bothered to learn the language because most people there speak English, anyway. The most he can make out are the words, " _oui_ " and " _hors d'oeuvres_ ", which don't help him understand the book at all.

 

           He closes it irritably and sits back in bed, staring at the ceiling with the blankets drawn up around his neck. It's cold in the room, as though the owners haven't cast any sort of heating charms around the place, and the feeling of being encompassed by warmth is extremely pleasant. He wonders if anyone will bring him dinner or if they'll make dinner at all, but he's pretty adamant that they will. This is Potter and his friends, after all. They'd probably even feel bad for Voldemort if they found out he had some kind of troubled childhood or something that caused him to be how he is. The thought of Voldemort as a child is so ridiculous, it makes Draco laugh out loud. It's better to imagine that he came into the world as he is.

 

           Someone knocks at the door only a few minutes later and Draco wraps himself more tightly in the blankets, never having changed into more than his shorts. When he doesn't respond to the person's knocking, Hermione comes in, her face glowing with sweat. She's extremely cautious, her wand held out at Draco as she drops a plate of food on the bedside table.

 

           "If that's more oatmeal, I'm not eating it. Pigs are served better than that."

 

           Hermione narrows her eyes at him, her dark lashes forming two straight, dark lines on either side of her nose.

 

           "You're in no position to refuse food. Being spoiled at a time like this will get you killed, so you'd do well to eat what we give you and not complain about it."

 

           Draco freely looks at every inch of Hermione as she walks backward to the door. She's skinny but curvy, perfectly in shape in his mind, and he smirks when he notices her shirt is sloping downward a bit, revealing the tiny bit of cleavage she has.

 

           "Might want to pull up your shirt," he says with a wink, only because he knows it will drive her crazy. And it does. She scowls deeply, looking down at her chest before pulling the shirt up much higher than it needs to be. When she's gone, he indulges himself in another laugh. At least two of them are still fazed by his behavior.

 

           The night passes by as uneventfully as his day. He brushes his teeth, which feels incredible after about a week or so of having to scrape at them with his fingernails (he shivers just thinking about it), and gets into bed. While his body relaxes enough for him to sleep, he looks at the ceiling and frowns, knowing he'll be seeing a lot more of it while he's here.

 

\---------------------------

  

           The room looks different when his eyes blink open. His forehead is dripping with sweat and he's screaming at the top of his lungs, terrified, but he has no idea why. So, he shuts his mouth abruptly and tries to slow his breathing in order to calm down. He's almost in a state where he can foresee going back to sleep when the door opens loudly, making him jump, and Harry runs in with his wand held out, looking around the room frantically.

 

           "What's wrong? Why were you screaming? I thought someone had gotten in," Harry interrogates breathlessly.

 

           Ron and Hermione follow within seconds, their wands held out in the same manner until they all decide in unison to lower them, realizing there isn't anyone but Draco in the room.

 

           "What's going on? I heard screaming. Is someone in the house?" Hermione rambles to Harry, who shakes his head.

 

           "No one. It's fine. You two should go back to bed."

 

           Draco can feel his cheeks start to burn; Potter is a lot smarter than he thought.

 

           "But, what happen--" she trails off, noticing Harry's warning expression. Then, she switches her eyes over to Draco, and there's that look again. So, she feels bad for him, too? Fine. She can feel bad all she wants. Her opinion means nothing to him. She could bend down and kiss the soles of his shoes and he still wouldn't care. He says all of this over and over again to himself, even crossing his arms indignantly, but there's an underlying notion that comes to mind after Hermione leaves with Ron, a confused, understanding look on her face: _So, this is what it's come to. The only feelings anyone has for me are purely of pity._

 

           " _Accio peppermint tea._ "

 

           A tin box zooms into Harry's hand as he's standing there across the room from Draco, looking exhausted. He takes a teabag out of the box and walks over to the bed, just like in Draco's dream, dropping it into the empty cup on the table.

 

           " _Aguamenti callidus._ "

 

           Hot water pours from the end of Harry's wand into the glass and when it's full, he steps back silently and awkwardly. Almost everything he does is awkward and it's starting to drive Draco up the wall.

 

           There's a moment after Harry leaves in which Draco thinks he wanted him to stay. Maybe it's the loneliness lingering in the empty corners of his bed, or the frigid air that sews goosebumps into his forearms. Maybe he's still asleep. All he knows is as he lies down again, he imagines Harry is lying there next to him, sharing the burdens Draco can't carry on his own, holding him like his mother did when he was little, refilling his tea and continuing to restrain any judgement, which is all that Draco wants in the world right now. It's a nice fantasy, enough to relax him into sleep again, but when he wakes up in the morning, his hand is gripping a cotton sheet instead of a warm body. The room slowly starts to feel like a prison and not anything close to a safe haven.

 

           He barely has time to get up and change before Harry walks in with a plate of fruit, crackers, and cheese. He's not cautious around Draco like he should be and that bothers him, probably because Harry now knows how pathetic Draco truly is.

 

           "I brought some coffee, too. I don't know if you want any," he remarks, and Draco's eyes dart over to the cup in Harry's hand.

 

           "I don't care for black coffee," Draco snaps, which is only kind of true. He certainly doesn't prefer black coffee, but after going so long without it, he would even drink coffee with grinds still floating in it. He just likes to be difficult when Harry's involved: his little bit of resistance.

 

           Harry sighs, but summons a tiny, ceramic pot of sugar and an unopened carton of half-and-half. Draco's actually surprised this time. He didn't expect this kind of treatment from someone who's supposed to hate him. Maybe Harry really does think Draco will die in this war.

 

           "Two sugars and a dash of cream."

 

           The words fall out of Draco's mouth as a demand, though not harshly. Harry surprises him again by stirring two spoonfuls of sugar and a splash of cream into the cup of coffee, an action so incredulous it makes Draco eye him distrustfully.

 

           "How do I know you haven't poisoned it?"

 

           Harry grabs the cup and takes a sip from it. Draco watches his Adam's apple bob as he swallows and, out of nowhere, instantly pictures Harry on his knees, his plum-colored lips clamped around Draco's cock so entirely that it disappears into the back of his throat; his Adam's apple bobs again as he pulls back, except this time he's swallowing Draco's come, not coffee.

 

           _There couldn't be a worse time for this_ , Draco chastises himself as he feels his face heat up. His pants are tight now: his first erection in a concerningly long time. But, of course, Harry doesn't notice. Thank Merlin.

 

           "See? Not poisoned. Now, drink up. I need your help today with a potion. You're good at potions, aren't you?"

 

           Draco's too embarrassed to sneer properly, but he does his best attempt.

 

           "What makes you think I'd want to help _you_? Make the potion your damn self. I seem to remember you being quite skilled, according to that pathetic excuse for a Potions teacher."

 

           "That was different."

 

           Every time Harry opens his mouth, Draco's gaze is drawn to his tongue like bugs to bright light. It's alluringly slick and red, like the rest of his mouth. Does he have any idea that the way he talks can affect people like this?

 

           "Have Hermione help you. I've got more important things to do."

 

           His cheeks fill with hot coffee until it burns and he has to move the liquid around before he can get it down his throat. Even though he's covered in a full-length cloak that oddly fits him well, he shifts uncomfortably, worried Harry will figure out why his cheeks are so red. For now, he can blame it on the coffee steam.

 

           "Like what? Sitting in bed and sleeping? Trying to read a cookbook written in French? You don't even speak French, do you?"

 

           "No, and I don't care to. It's a useless language. Everyone in France speaks English, anyway."

 

           "I've never been to France."

 

           "You're not missing that much, unless you like wine. That's pretty much all the French are good for." _I wonder what kind of things Potter's likely to do when he's drunk._ "They're ridiculous people, using all kinds of things for wand cores. I mean, _honestly_. Kneazle whiskers? That's something Loony Lovegood would do."

 

           "You shouldn't call her that. She's a really nice girl."

 

           "She's mental."

 

           "I don't care. She doesn't deserve the kind of treatment she gets. People hide her clothes before it's time to pack up at the end of the school year, tease her relentlessly, call her names. It's rubbish. She just wants friends, you know? She just wants to be like everyone else."

 

           It's annoyingly impossible to block out Harry's whining and just focus on the way his jaw moves to form certain words, or the way his hair falls after he runs his fingers through it. He wishes he could cast _Silencio_ without a wand. Harry would be much easier to deal with that way.

 

           " _Merlin_ , you're irritating."

 

           "Why? Because I'm not a royal dick to everyone I meet?"

 

           "Yes, that's _exactly_ why. You ignore all the traits in people that should be annoying. You only focus on reasons to _like_ someone and disregard any reason you find not to like them. Probably why you've stuck with Weasley for so long. I know I wouldn't be able to."

 

           "And _you_ only focus on reasons _not_ to like someone. So, I guess we're both close-minded. Tell me, do you have any _real_ friends?"

 

           Of all the insults Harry has dealt him, this one stings the most, because it's agonizingly true. He doesn't have any real friends. He doesn't even know if he's ever wanted them. He's always been better at pushing people away than letting them in. Draco scoffs and crosses his arms, but is unable to look anywhere near Harry.

 

           "Of course I do. That's ridiculous."

 

           "So, you have people who spend the holidays with you?"

 

           "Well, no, but --"

 

           "People you tell all your secrets to, no matter how embarrassing they are?"

 

           "No, but I --"

 

           "People you can depend on no matter what?"

 

           When he blinks, he can see his parents waving goodbye to him through a window of the Hogwarts Express. His mother looks worried. His dad looks expectant.

 

           "You know, I don't have to answer any of your stupid questions!"

 

           "Have you ever thought it's because you act like a condescending arsehole all the time? I could be wrong, but I'm trying to believe you're not _entirely_ selfish. Maybe there's room in there for a _few_ friends. Don't you think?"

 

           Draco is on Harry before he has time to sort out his emotions. Anger and jealousy pound in his increasingly-loud heartbeat, propelling him forward as he grabs Harry's collar and pushes him against the wall. His breathing is ragged and audible, coming out of his nostrils in a discordant pattern.

 

           "I've had enough of this! You think you can say whatever you want and no one will call you out on it because you're the _precious_ Boy Who Lived! Oh, all hail the great Harry Potter and his _great_ friends! He can be a huge cunt and it's just fine because he's famous! Well, I've news for you, knobhead! You're no better than anyone else!"

 

           He and Harry lock eyes challengingly, waiting for the other to make the first swing, but just as quickly as he felt anger rise up inside him, it dissipates with their uncomfortable proximity, like a physical object clattering to the ground before he can catch it. He spends the next few seconds struggling with everything in his being to keep staring Harry down intimidatingly, yet when he starts to think about the gentle shade of moss in Harry's irises and his shocked, dilated pupils, Draco's resolve fails. His eyes slip to Harry's soft, round lips and he immediately wrenches away, moving over to the bed again.

 

           "Leave me alone," he spits, not bothering to look at anything but the wall. Harry stares at the back of his head for a few minutes and Draco waits until he hears the click of the door shutting that will mean Harry has escaped, and when he does, it's as though something intangible of Draco's has escaped with him.

 

\--------------------

 

           That night, he finds himself reliving his argument with Potter in a nightmare he's positive he'll remember in the morning.

 

           Instead of walking away, he leans forward, abandoning the usual careful thought processes, kissing Harry as though it's punishment, licking Harry's bottom lip as his way of saying, "Fuck you!" and "This is what you get!" in not so many words.

 

           But, something's wrong. The stillness of Harry's mouth as he moves his own against it makes his heart throw itself out of his chest and shatter like that stupid glass cup that's sitting on the bedside table would if he threw it against the wall. It shatters without noise and without notice, leaving a giant hole between his ribs that aches and bleeds into his robes. As though stung, he pulls away abruptly and wipes his mouth, humiliated tears burning his eyes.

  

           He doesn't allow himself to cry, even in his dream, and tries to pretend, despite all the emptiness that's so recently settled into his bones, that he was never quite complete to begin with. As he sniffs angrily, pushing away the kind of sadness he knows is crippling, that pathetic, grovelling part of him surfaces again and makes him wish he were the kind of person who would fit into Harry's life.

 

           Spotting the halfway-empty mug of coffee on the table, he smacks it onto the floor with an impulsive, satisfying flick of his wrist. But, it doesn't make him feel any better.

 

           And in the morning, he pulls the blankets up to his chin to escape the perennial chill that haunts his new room, stretching his arms out and touching every unused corner of the bed, which confirms the reality of his being completely alone. Loftily, he re-imagines Harry's body beside him, coming in to forgive him for something that only happened in his subconscious, willing to wrap his arms around his shoulders, to let Draco put his head on his chest and listen to his pulse. Then, made-up Harry is offering him another cup of coffee, after repairing the mug that hasn't actually been broken, as if he's offering to go back to their first day at Hogwarts, or the day Draco was born -- whenever all of this started. As if he wants to save Draco from becoming what he's worked so hard to be.

 

           "Not everyone can be saved!" he yells out loud, his fists sinking into a pillow, letting out the last of his anger until he over-exerts himself and falls onto his back, ready again to succumb to sleep, his ever-faithful solution.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love writing dream sequences; can you tell? This chapter isn't as long, but lots more coming!


	3. Nature vs. Nurture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“This fall I think you’re riding for -- it’s a special kind of fall, a horrible kind. The man falling isn’t permitted to feel or hear himself hit bottom. He just keeps falling and falling. The whole arrangement’s designed for men who, at some time or other in their lives, were looking for something their own environment couldn’t supply them with. Or they thought their own environment couldn’t supply them with. So they gave up looking. They gave it up before they ever really even got started.” --_ The Catcher in the Rye, _J.D. Salinger_

          Against the muted, clashing colors of Draco's new room, Hermione's bushy hair looks like something wild that shouldn't be there -- a large rodent running across the floor in the middle of the day. She can't ever be bothered to look nice? Maybe put on a bit of makeup, an expensive blouse, a skirt? She might be pretty enough to distract from her monstrous teeth if she dressed up every once in a while.

 

          "I don't know why _I'm_ the one who has to do this when Harry brought you here. It doesn't seem fair," she mutters to herself as she levitates a plate of toast and a glass of pumpkin juice to the bed, not willing to get too close. "You really should get out of bed. It's not healthy just sitting there all day. You could...I don't know, clean or something. Make yourself useful."

 

          "Don't be absurd. You can't clean without a wand."

 

          Somehow, Hermione grows taller as she smirks amusedly at him. It could be that her hair is getting bigger, which seems impossible, or that Draco's sitting in bed and she's standing up.

 

          "Well, I guess you'll just have to live in filth, then, because you're too much of a privileged idiot to figure out how to do a simple thing."

 

          "Send a house elf in. I'm sure they're not all busy," Draco suggests casually, standing up only to obtain his rightful height.

 

          "You just don't get it, do you?"

 

          "Get what?"

 

          "Not everyone has house elves and not everyone has magic. Those are privileges people are born with. I'm sorry _you_ had to be born into such ignorance that you can't understand that."

 

          "Is that a crack on my family?"

 

          Hermione takes a loud breath in, straightening her shoulders challengingly.

 

          "Yes. Your family are a bunch of pathetic, ignorant toffs who have nothing better to do than put other people down to make themselves feel better."

 

          "Watch your mouth, Granger. I don't want to have to hurt you."

 

         "Oh, I'm not worried."

 

         Hermione smiles and indicates her wand with her index finger, reminding Draco of his place before calmly walking out the door.

 

          Draco watches the irksome, ratty back of her head as she leaves, allowing it to fuel a bit of futile anger as he lies still and stares at the ceiling, the one, incredibly mundane source of entertainment he has. There aren't even cracks in it that he can spend time counting, or texture spots in the paint. The house must be brand new.

 

          His gaze moves to the door; he likes to keep his eyes on it, as though Harry will come bursting through at any moment. But, he won't. It's only a matter of time before he gives up on Draco altogether.

 

          Showering has overcome being a necessity for Draco and turned into a way to occupy his time. He finds that an onslaught of pitiful whimpering will fade into the steady slap of water against tile, a sound tranquilizing enough to keep his memories at bay. Then he’ll wrap himself in a fluffy towel provided by Hermione, the only person who will set foot in his room, and he'll occupy the chair in which Harry used to sit, just so he doesn’t have to look at how empty it is.

 

          The one perk of having Hermione as his new babysitter is that he’s gotten lots of books to read. Of course, they’re all about muggles or the horrors of dark magic, but she doesn’t have to know that the more gruesome a spell is portrayed to be, the more fascinated Draco becomes by it. She brings him food three times a day, only because she’s too decent to leave him to die. Most of the time, she looks frazzled and exhausted like Harry, and Draco can only wonder what they’re all up to. He supposes having their plan foiled in Diagon Alley set them back quite a bit.

 

           _Serves them right_ , Draco thinks smugly.

 

          It's evening, presumably, when Hermione brings him his dinner: squash and rice. After setting it down, she stands in front of him, quite a way back, with narrowed eyes. Her left hand is on her hip and her right hand on her wand. At least she's smart enough to be wary of him still.

 

          "What did you do?" she asks accusingly.

 

          "I'm sorry?"

 

          "Don't play stupid, Malfoy. It doesn't suit you."

 

          Draco simpers and stands up by his chair, making sure not to fix his T-Shirt, which has ridden up on his stomach.

 

          "I don't know what you're talking about."

 

          As she speaks, however, her eyes never stray from Draco's face and her critical glare is unrelenting, must to his disappointment.

 

          "Harry hasn't been the same since Saturday. He's been spending all his time in the garden or off on his own who-knows-where. And he won't come in here anymore, asks _me_ to deal with you instead, but won't tell me why. So, what did you do? What could you _possibly_ have said to him to make him act like this?"

 

          Draco, who finds himself just as confused as Hermione is, has his eyebrows furrowed in concentration and his hand in front of his face as he counts his fingers.

 

          "Saturday...and today is...What's today?"

 

          "Did you hear anything I just said?"

 

          Waving her away, he continues to stare at his fingers and tries to find out what day it could be.

 

          "Wednesday...no, Thursday. Is it Thursday? How long have I been here?"

 

          "Stop it," she demands, deliciously frustrated with his antics. “I will not buy into any of your games. Tell me what you did to Harry.”

 

          Draco wrinkles his nose defiantly.

 

          "I didn't _do_ anything."

 

          "You're lying."

 

          Draco adopts a look of the utmost cockiness; after being cooped up for so long, he deserves to have a little fun.

 

          "Could be."

 

          Hermione huffs in frustration, her glossy brown eyes searching Draco's as if they'll reveal something. When it's clear Draco won't give in, she sighs and releases the tension in her shoulders, attempting a different approach.

 

          " _Please_. I just want to know what happened. We desperately need him to be focused on other things right now."

 

          Her quick-witted persuasion is admirable, but Draco can tell there's not enough Slytherin in her to persuade him effectively. His grin drops into a neutral line and he sits back down in his chair.

 

          "Ask him yourself."

 

          "I've tried! He just won't listen to me."

 

          "I guess you'll never know, then."

 

          "You're infuriating."

 

          "Fantastic."

 

          Hermione bristles and twists her lips, obviously trying her best not to let Draco get to her, but he seems to be winning this time, at least a little bit.

 

          “He’ll tell me eventually, you know. _Friends_ don’t keep secrets. But, you wouldn’t know about any of that, would you?”

 

          She leaves coolly and Draco leans back in his chair, that last statement causing him to feel robbed of his usual victory-against-mudblood bliss. When did it get so unsatisfying to be a dick?

 

          He stands up, frustrated by this new development in his existential inadequacy, kicks the chair so hard his toe starts to throb, and falls back onto the bed, clutching it. The pain subsides shortly, leaving him to stare at the immaculate, sea-green wallpaper of the ceiling yet again, which makes him scowl and roll over onto his side. For a second, he wonders what the real reason for Harry's odd behavior is, but he quickly pushes it out of his mind.

 

          What he really needs to help him get through hours and hours of mind-boggling boredom is a nice bottle of elf-made wine or champagne. He could even go for some Firewhiskey right now, if he had any. There's always Elderflower, which his parents had hidden away in their cabinets. He was allowed a small glass with dinner or at a party, but they kept a number of wards on their alcohol otherwise, not that Draco would ever be so reckless as to try to steal from them when he knew perfectly well how to get his own, especially when he became of age. Maybe he can try convincing Granger to bring him some in the morning, although he doubts they'd give him any even if they had it. It's not so fun to get drunk by himself, Draco knows, but it's better than staring at this damn ceiling for another second.

 

          Pleased with the unlikely prospect of obtaining alcohol the next day, Draco pulls the blankets over himself and curls his legs into his stomach, holding his eyelids closed against a rush of harrowing thoughts until he can fall asleep.

 

          _A light breeze tickles his skin as though he’s brushed against a hedge of Callistemon leaves. He lifts his head and sees the door to his room is open; Harry and his friends are sick of him, so they’re letting him leave. Two steps before the door, however, he’s thrown back by some ineffable force: Hermione’s enchantments. The three of them are laughing at him somewhere down the hallway._

 

\----------------------------------------------------------

 

          “Do you have anything to drink?” Draco asks just after Hermione’s set down his oatmeal and water.

 

          “I brought you water. We’re running low on pumpkin juice,” she responds, impervious to Draco’s intentions as he knew she would be. He allows himself to smile, hoping it will make him seem a little warmer and more approachable than usual.

 

          “You misunderstand me, Granger.”

 

          Her eyes are glued to the table for a moment, contemplating Draco’s words, before giving up on determining the meaning behind them.

 

          “A drink is a consumable -- _oh_.” She laughs when she realizes what Draco is asking much more quickly than he imagined she would. “No, I don’t think so. You can’t just call me Mudblood, pick on Harry for seven years, _abuse your house elf_ , and expect me to bring you whatever you please. It doesn’t work like that.”

 

          “Are you talking about that elf that apparated you from my manor? I don’t _abuse_ any of my house elves. They love being useful, just ask them!”

 

          “His name was _Dobby_ and he’s dead now, thanks to your aunt,” she states calmly, her eyes welling up with tears.

 

          _Is she really getting this upset about_ bloody _house elves?_

 

          “He was just an _elf_ , for crying out loud.”

 

          “He saved us. He was kind and considerate and never deserved what you and your family put him through. He was worth more than everyone in that room.”

 

          “We didn’t put him through anything! House elves need to be punished -- they’re _mental_ if they’re not!”

 

          “Punished for what? For making simple mistakes? I wonder what your family _did_ punish him for...probably for spilling a bit of wine on the table.”

 

          “They’re supposed to do their job correctly, and the only way to see that they are is to give them a good smack when they mess up.”

 

          Hermione holds a finger to the space between her nose and mouth, holding back more tears.

 

          “House elves are _living creatures_ with feelings just like wizards. Haven’t you ever heard of a thing called Stockholm Syndrome?”

 

          “Come again?”

 

          “Stockholm Syndrome is a psychological phenomenon in which hostages express empathy and sympathy toward their captors, sometimes to the point of defending and identifying with them.”

 

          “What does that have to do with anything?”

 

          “It means house elves are _conditioned_ to behave this way and are _bred_ to inherit such degrading thoughts from their parents, who have lived the same existence they have. If they were in their right minds, they wouldn’t want to be treated so poorly. No one would!”

 

          Draco swallows, the perilous truth of her words coating the roof of his mouth like deathly-sweet molasses, to the point where he feels as though he’s choking on them. When a small twinge of disgust and horror begins to boggle his emotions, he snorts and looks away.

 

          “That’s ridiculous. My house elves are _very_ happy. You just don’t understand because you were raised by muggles.”

 

          He makes sure to punctuate the word, “muggles”, hoping to upset her enough with his bigotry that she won’t notice his failure to compose himself. Thankfully, she looks uncertain as to the affect her tirade has had on him and her gaze switches from both of his eyes skeptically.

 

          “Muggles have had their own problems with slavery, you know.”

 

          “House elves are not slaves,” he says, exuding a finality with which he can’t currently identify.

 

          “Evil is a part of every human, especially the ones who think it isn’t.”

 

          She neither seems angry nor pleased when she leaves, and Draco thinks that’s for the best. 

 

          Sensing a layer of invisible grime on his skin, he takes four showers that day instead of three and Hermione doesn’t bring him lunch. Shockingly, it’s Ron who comes in with his dinner just when Draco’s ready to go to sleep and drops it grudgingly on the table.

 

          “There’s your bleeding dinner, you cauldron of horklump spunk," he mutters bitterly.

 

          “It took you a while to come up with that one, didn’t it?” Draco replies with the best snarkiness he can muster.

 

          Ron makes a rude gesture at Malfoy, but leaves the room as quickly as possible. It’s obvious he was forced into bringing Draco food. Out of all of them, Ron is definitely the most likely to let him starve, if given the choice.

 

          While Draco lies in bed, as useless to the world as he would be out of it, he grins. By successfully having everyone in the house pissed off with him (of whose presence he's aware), he's back under the impression that he's able to get under their skin.

 

 

          For some reason, this makes him think back to his dream about Harry. Of course, he knows if he'd  _actually_ kissed him, Potter would probably be revolted and not just stand there like an idiot.

 

          Famous _Harry Potter could never stoop to snog pathetic, destiny-less Draco Malfoy._

          Malfoy cringes angrily and tries to roll these thoughts off his back by telling himself it’s better he doesn’t concern himself with men, anyway. A repulsion toward homosexuality was instilled in him from an early age due to the pressure of continuing the Malfoy family line, a pressure so lovingly and trustingly bestowed upon him by his parents. It was never in his narrow train of thought to become attracted to men as well as women; he hardly knew such a thing was possible until his third year at Hogwarts, when that weightless feeling in his stomach that he associated with looking at a pretty girl started to occur when his male teammates changed their shirts before a game of Quidditch. It would make more sense to maintain his repulsion after he came to the conclusion that he, indeed, possessed the ability to have feelings for men, which would eventually end up being just another problem he had with himself. Yet, he isn't repulsed by it, despite the fact that he very well should be, and these thoughts shamelessly excite him as well as terrify him: nature vs. nurture, the same battle that can be found at the root of all his deficiencies. Maybe one day his mother will find out about his preferences, but for now, it remains the only thing over which Draco has control in his life.

 

          With the blankets draped only over half his body, Draco sighs. Tonight something dreadful has caught up to him and is disguising itself as exhaustion -- the kind of exhaustion that makes taking air into his lungs an effort and has him melting into the mattress every time he closes his eyes, as if being a mattress would serve a greater purpose than being himself.

 

          Depression is a dangerous state of mind -- there's a void somewhere in the metaphysical body, shaped very distinctively. If one can't find something that fits perfectly inside the void -- like a washer on a screw -- the void will start to take whatever it doesn't need: the will to eat, to keep clean, to pry one's self from a desperately-comfortable bed, or even to wake up at all.

 

          Most people don't realize that a lack of fundamental motivation can cause even the strongest soul to erode.

 

          But, if by random chance, a burst of aspiration, or ethereal beings stitching life together in one's favor, he or she finds something to fit inside the void, there's no guarantee it won't be lost just as quickly. It's much easier to stay wary of the temptation of depression, because hope is the conscious spirit's perennial labor. And unlike the indomitable Harry Potter, Draco is helplessly encumbered by this labor.

 

          His muscles ache under the mass of his heavy conscience. The skin under his eyes is puffy and sore like an insomniac's, even though he's been getting much more sleep than he should. He takes a few deep breaths in and releases the last of his potent thoughts, joining the mattress longingly, wondering for a brief moment if it would be so terrible that he should not wake up in the morning.

 

 

\-------------------------

 

 

          It seems as though he's only just gone to sleep when he wakes up to the strong smell of stale alcohol and wrinkles his nose. As he turns over onto his side, facing the room's lone chair, he sees something in it: a mess of black hair over a thick, maroon sweater. Draco frowns and sits up cautiously.

 

          "Potter...?"

 

          The mess of black hair stirs and a pair of striking green eyes behind lopsided wire glasses peeks up at him intoxicatedly. There's a moment of confusing, awkward silence while they both sit there looking at each other, Draco wondering why the hell Harry is drunk in his room in the middle of the night and Harry wondering who knows what.

  

          "I don't understand you. I thought I did, you...forra minute, I thought..."

 

          Draco rolls his eyes and moves to sit on the edge of the bed. His legs are long enough that his feet touch the cold, hardwood floor and he shivers, but doesn't change his position.

 

          "You can't even form a coherent sentence. You're drunk. Go away."

 

          As he says it, his stomach twists with the hope that Harry won't take this advice.

 

          "You hate me, yeah? Like we're...en'mies."

 

          "How very well-enunciated." Draco cocks his head to the side slightly, studying Potter, calculating precisely what things he might trigger with every word he says out loud. “ _Are_ you my enemy?”

 

          “That’s up to you.”

 

          Deciding after a few more seconds of silent staring that he’s uncomfortable with the direction this conversation is headed, Draco forces himself to laugh by taking in Harry’s sloshed expression. He looks ludicrous, sprawled out over the chair in front of him as though he’s lost all his bones, his lower lip flipped outward into a meaningless pout.

 

          "Good lord, with _that_ tolerance someone would think you'd never drank in your entire life."

 

          "I've been drunk before!"

 

          "I'm genuinely surprised."

 

          Harry leans back in his chair and crosses his arms.

 

          "Fuck you."

 

          "Oh, don't stop there. Keep them coming. I want every drunken insult you can think of."

 

          Draco folds his hands under his legs and simpers amusedly; Drunk Harry is the most entertainment he's had in days.

 

          "Well, you're a git."

 

          "Mmhmm, go on," Draco prompts, biting his tongue to keep from laughing again.

 

          "And...a prat."

 

          "Is that all?"

 

          Harry scowls and uncrosses his arms.

 

          "No. No, that's not all! You wanna know something else?"

 

          "What?"

 

          A bit of the fire in Harry's eyes dies out every second he stares combatively at Draco, and when he's finally closed his mouth, unable to think of anything more to say, he blows defeated air through his lips.

 

          "You know what," he mutters pathetically, and Draco lets out another, more cruel laugh. Harry presses his lips together indignantly, standing up. "Stop laughing at me!"

 

          "Imagine what the _Prophet_ would say -- Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived, unable to handle himself after a few glasses of...what was it you drank?"

 

          "Firewhiskey."

 

          "After a few glasses of _firewhiskey_. You probably didn't even polish off the bottle, did you?"

 

          "S'what if I didn't?"

 

          Draco ignores this pathetic excuse for a retort as his mind wanders toward other motives.

 

          "Is there any left?"

 

          "Of what?"

 

          "The firewhiskey. Where's the rest of it?"

 

          "Not telling."

 

          "Come on, Potter. I've been through an _awful_ lot. Don't you think I deserve a drink?"

 

          Harry raises his eyebrows and it looks as if he's thinking, which must be extremely difficult, given the state he's in. Then he's leaving the room without so much as an, "Okay", and Draco can't tell if he's upset or going to fetch the firewhiskey. In preparation for the former, he sighs and lies back down on the mattress. He couldn't have gotten more than two hours of sleep. How does he feel this awake?

 

          The door opens again and Harry stumbles through it holding a large bottle of Ogden’s Finest, which he sets on the bedside table before sitting back down across from Draco.

 

          “Tha -- er, this. Is wonderful.” Draco winces as he’s reaching for the bottle, disgusted by the fact that he almost inadvertently showed his arch enemy even the tiniest bit of gratitude, but Harry doesn’t notice, probably because he's hammered off his ass. Touching the bottle directly to his mouth, he pours the rest of its contents down his throat in one gulp, which is probably a bad idea, but _Taliesen’s holey socks_ does he want to be drunk right now. Harry is watching him with half-lidded eyes, inches away from passing out, so Draco leans toward him and snaps his fingers in front of his eyes demandingly.

 

          "Hey. Wake up. I don't want you falling asleep in my room."

 

          What he really wants to say is, _I don't want you falling asleep in my room in that chair, fully-clothed, three feet away_ , but he'd rather not have Harry run out on him. Hermione and Ron are great to tease for a while, but there's a kind of comfort Harry gives him that he can't imagine finding in the other two. Harry understands what he's been through on a personal level -- he's one of the few people who can see past Draco's fronts without having to force any information out of him.

 

          "All right, all right. I'm awake. Just...tired."

 

          "I can see that."

 

          "I should go t'sleep."

 

          Impulsively, Draco changes the subject, hoping it will distract Harry from leaving. Unfortunately, the effects of the alcohol haven’t kicked in yet.

 

          "Where did you get this?"

 

          "What? The firewhiskey? Oh...from Bill."

 

          "Who's Bill?"

 

          "Ron's brother. His house."

 

          "This is his house? Bill _Weasley_?” Draco looks around the room, knowing he must have heard Harry incorrectly. This house is much too nice to be a Weasley’s, even with all its tacky, meaningless decorations, but Harry nods again. “You’re joking.”

 

          “His and Flooor’s.”

 

          “‘Flooor’…? What kind of a name is that?”

 

          “What kind of a name is, ‘Draco’?”

 

          Insulted, but willingly deigning to explain the significance of his name to someone muggle-raised and apparently clueless, Draco straightens his back and lifts his chin in the air a bit, so that he’s looking down on Harry.

 

          “I’ll have you know that mine is a very old and coveted Wizarding name that would only be given to someone who comes from a long line of upper-class wizards. I’m named after the circumpolar constellation, Draco, which means, 'Dragon' in Latin. Unlike your name, which means nothing at all. Except maybe that you should shave more often than most.”

 

          “‘Dragon’? No, I see you as more of a turtle.”

 

          “A turtle? What the hell?”

 

          “Yeah, no. You’re definitely a turtle. Maybe you wanna be a dragon'r a snake, but you’re a turtle, for sure.”

 

          Harry makes an absurd face, his upper lip stretched over his bottom, trying to do the worst impression of a turtle fathomable, and Draco’s fingernails dig into his palms angrily. Even though he knows Potter is drunk and rambling about ridiculous things, he’s oddly affected by this statement. It can most likely be attributed to the slight buzz that’s overcome Draco’s senses.

 

          “Well, my name doesn’t _mean_ turtle, it means dragon!”

 

          “Christ, you’re nothing like a dragon. You’re a turtle because you've go'this big, hard shell that you hide in, wanting people t'think you’re some kind of rock, but you’re really justa soft, wrinkly...something. W'ever turtles are. Weird, mushy things.”

 

          Face red with rage, Draco reaches for his wand instinctively, only to remember he doesn’t have it. Harry does.

 

          _Hold on. Harry has his wand. Harry’s_ drunk _._

 

          Instantly, he launches himself at Harry and grabs at his pockets, searching for the wand, knowing he must have it on him and that it will be easy to take.

 

          “Wha’re you -- get off me!”

 

          Harry struggles to pull Malfoy off him and a sharp pain radiates from one of Draco’s shins. Pinning down the leg that’s kicking him, Draco finally feels something thin and solid in Harry’s front pocket and takes it out. There’s no time to revel in the all-encompassing relief that fills his stomach as he holds his own wand in his hand for the first time in weeks, something he thought he’d never be able to do again. He steps back and points it at Harry, who stills cautiously. It seems as though shock has sobered him for the moment.

 

          “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

 

          “I know _exactly_ what I’m doing.”

 

          “There’s nothing for you out there, Malfoy. Hand over the wand. Stay where you’re _safe_.”

 

          “I’m the furthest from being safe with three people who hate me!”

 

          “I wouldn’t have brought you here if I hated you.”

 

          “You only brought me here because you feel _sorry_ for me! I’m not an object, Potter, and I’m certainly no token of achievement for your reputation!”

 

          “Think for a bleeding...just think for a second! You’ve nowhere t'go, no one --”

 

          “Shut up! I don’t care anymore, all right? Anything’s better than being locked up with you lot!”

 

          “Fucking...dammit, Draco, i’snot --”

 

          “I said _shut up_! _Concido pellis_!”

 

          Draco swipes his wand in the air, as though he’s slicing a knife through a slab of meat, and a deep, red gash appears across Harry’s face, running from the middle of his nose to his left ear.

 

          “ _That’s payback for Sixth Year_ ,” he whispers dangerously and the scars on his chest contract, remembering the incident. Harry clutches his face and hisses, a noise that echoes in the dusty crevices of Draco's skull. Everything seems to have paused for a moment to allow him to reflect on the impetuous decision he's just made: the wind is quiet outside and the crickets have ceased chirping, as if in wait for Draco's next move. The hand around his wand loosens, feeling unworthy of holding it, and he notices bile rising up in his throat.

 

 _This is the reason you have no friends,_ Draco thinks. _This is the reason you have nothing._

 

          With terrified, guilty eyes, Draco runs for the door, disarming Hermione’s enchantments easily.

 

          His heart is hammering nails into his ribcage and he's bombarded by a million thoughts at once: Where am I, where will I go, what have I done, and how will I defend myself?

 

          Running into the hallway, though, he's met by something that promptly puts a stop to these thoughts, and almost has him wondering if Potter ever really woke him up at all, or if he’s still lying in bed, dreaming. A bright light illuminates the walls, and he whips his head around the room with his dreadfully-shaky wand, prepared to hex someone into oblivion, thinking it must be Hermione or Ron having heard the commotion.

 

          But, as the light grows stronger, a wispy, ghost-like bird with a long neck and a stripe across its beak stops right in front of him.

 

          It’s a patronus of a swan. The same as his mother's.

 

          _“I only have a few minutes before they come back and find out what I’ve done. You need to be prepared, Draco. No matter where you go, you are not safe. They will know where you are._

 _“I wish I knew that you were all right, but no matter what happens, I love you with all my heart. You are the strongest, bravest, most clever son I could ever hope to have and you have made me so proud to be your mother,”_ Narcissa’s voice projects. He can tell she’s trying her best not to cry, because her voice is shaky and cracks every few words.

 

          The patronus disappears, leaving Draco to drop to his knees where it had stood as all the oxygen in his lungs is squeezed out of him.

 

          _She isn't dead_ , he rationalizes in his mind, _but she will be, very soon._

 

          To his right, Harry stands in the doorway with wide eyes and Draco wonders how much of his mother’s message he heard. His eyes feel wet when he grabs the carpet, wishing he were grabbing his mother’s arms instead, but knowing he might never be able to see her again.

 

          In a split second, Hermione and Ron run around the corner in their nightclothes and, without hesitation, Hermione points her wand at Draco.

 

          “ _Petrificus totalus_!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I messed around with the Wikipedia definition for Stockholm Syndrome, so credit! And I always kind of thought Draco's patronus would be a turtle, and he'd be really upset by that. This chapter took me a long time because there wasn't a whole lot going on for Draco, since he'd pissed everyone off. I hope you enjoyed it anyway, though!


	4. Always Is Limited

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"There are only two mistakes one can make along the path to truth; not going all the way, and not starting." -- Buddha_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE READ ARCHIVE WARNINGS. Not for the faint of heart!

           After Malfoy drops to the ground (the momentum of his head hitting the rug slowed by Hermione's skillful hands), he can feel the chill of a tear on his face. The other three turn to each other, leaving Draco to watch them converse.

 

           "What was that?" Ron asks Harry, extending a finger toward where the patronus had stopped to relay its message. Harry pulls a thin brown bottle from the pocket of his jeans and downs the entirety of its contents in one gulp. When he faces the group, his posture is stable and his eyes seem less far away.

 

           "Hermione, grab your bag. We're leaving," Harry commands.

 

           "What's going on?" questions Hermione, whose pajama shirt is suggestively buttoned. Draco's gaze wanders to Ron, who always seems to run in at the same time as Hermione, and the dynamic clicks.

 

          _Does Harry know?_

 

           Briskly walking over to Malfoy's stiff, unresponsive body, Harry takes back the Hawthorn wand and runs his fingers through his hair so aggressively, it looks as though he'll pull it out in tufts.

 

           "They know Malfoy's here. Shit, they're going to come for him!" Harry yells frantically.

 

           "How did they find out? Did you say the name?" Hermione asks.

 

           "Of course not!"

 

           "But, you were drunk, Harry. That potion -- you probably didn't know _what_ you were saying."

 

           "I _know_ I didn't say his name!"

 

           "All right, let's go, then! What are we waiting for?" Ron interjects.

 

           "I'm not leaving him to die, Ron!"

 

           "Are you _barking_? It's a surprise he didn't kill us when he got a hold of his wand!"

 

           "If we leave him, we're allowing someone to die just to save our own arses! It's murder -- something You-Know-Who would do!"

 

           "Harry --" Hermione says nervously, but Ron interrupts her without even acknowledging she's said anything.

 

           "You're taking this hero thing too far, Harry. He's not our problem."

 

           "And he's not responsible for what's happened to him!"

 

           "Harry!" Hermione repeats, her arm outstretched to a wall across the hallway that promptly explodes, revealing a mousy-haired woman in Death Eater robes.

 

           "He's here! That Potter boy -- I found him! _Diffindo_!" the woman screeches unpleasantly, whipping out her wand and aiming a sharp, white beam at them that barely misses Hermione's right shoulder.

 

           "Run!" Harry shouts, diving down to avoid another beam as he points his wand at Draco and undoes Hermione's curse.

 

           Draco gets to his feet immediately and runs behind the three of them, who alternate from casting shields to throwing hexes while they attempt to back up into the nearest room. When they approach a door, however, the door flies across the hall and bursts into flames, effectively blocking their path.

 

           " _Expelliarmus!_ " Harry cries, disarming a short, stocky man who's come through the new hole in the wall. Draco squints and recognizes him as Albert Runcorn from the ministry. Runcorn's wand clatters to the ground and Harry summons it while Hermione and Ron put their backs against each other to fight off more intruders.

 

           "Malfoy!" Harry screams over the chaotic tumult of explosions and curses. Stunned by everything that's played out, Draco gawks at him and jumps when a painting on the wall falls to the ground. With his shield impressively strong in front of him, Harry runs over to Draco and grips his shoulder painfully. "Tell me that I can trust you. And _don't_ lie to me."

 

           Colored lights reflected across his grey irises, Draco thinks of his father, which gives him the split-second strength to nod to Harry and mean it. Harry hands him a thick, coppery-brown wand and they join their backs to Hermione's and Ron's, covering every angle of sight possible.

 

           _"Stupefy!"_

_"Impedimenta!"_

_"Immobulus!"_

           Draco shakes with fear, watching the few Death Eaters who have come into the house battle with the other three. No one has come his way to attack yet because they seem more interested in Harry, so he allows himself to ponder the situation while he has the chance. Yes, he's fighting with Harry and his friends out of fear, but he's fighting with them all the same. So, his impulse is to be loyal to Harry? No, he's never been loyal to anyone but his parents. His impulse is self-preservation, and the best thing he can do to protect himself right now is to ally with the people who pity him as opposed to the people who want him dead, although neither is ideal. But, life has never been ideal for Draco.

 

           Just when he thinks he'll be able to get through this fight without having to duel anyone, the one Death Eater he didn't want to have to face again steps toward him through smoke and rubble, her untidy black hair singed and dark eyes manic.

 

           "Ickle Draco -- just the boy we came to see! Mummy and Daddy wouldn’t be happy about your choice of friends," the real Bellatrix taunts, moving closer. Draco holds his wand out, knowing how volatile she is. His loud heartbeat drowns out the rest of the scene, so that he can only hear his and Bellatrix's voices.

 

           "How did you find me?" he asks through gritted teeth. She has some nerve talking about his parents' opinions when she hasn't shown hardly any regard for them at all his entire life.

 

           “You honestly don’t know?” She chortles, pure, heartless joy darkening her olive cheeks. “It’s the mark, of course. The Dark Lord doesn’t like it when his followers turn their backs on him.”

 

           Draco chokes on his next breath, the cold air in the room circulating through him: All of his problems seem to be things that are out of his control. Behind him, a gruff voice yells to, “Spare the boy” and a piece of furniture is eaten by a jet of purple fire.

 

           “No one can escape the most powerful wizard of all time! Let death come willingly, Draco. It won’t hurt as much if you’re prepared for it,” she continues, her saccharine tambre echoing as he replays it in his mind.

 

           “ _Expelliarmus!_ ” Harry’s voice cries from behind him, but Bellatrix blocks the attack effortlessly and continues to berate Malfoy.

 

           “You really hated your parents, didn’t you?”

 

           Something powerful and acidic burns in Draco’s core and he lunges at Bellatrix, but Harry grabs his arm to hold him back.

 

           “It’s not worth it. She’s just doing this to antagonize you. Remember, _she came here to kill you_ ,” Harry whispers, his hot breath falling like mist over Draco’s ear, relaxing his muscles and causing him to stay where he is.

 

           “Don’t whisper to him in front of me, you _filth_!” Bellatrix yells, swishing her wand and throwing Harry against the wall with a wordless spell. Draco looks over his shoulder only for a second to see Harry wince and jump to his feet as quickly as possible. While Bellatrix is laughing maniacally again, the feeling in his core erupts and he points his wand at her.

 

           “I love my mother more than you _ever_ have. You’d rather spend your efforts on a man who’ll never love anyone than a sister who’s always been there for you.”

 

           Bellatrix grins and takes another step forward.

 

           "She was more interested in her family's well-being than in the cause. Funny, that...She was really only interested in herself until she met your father. Your mother wasted her talents, Draco. Her life was meaningless.”

 

           When she’s gotten a bit too close, Draco raises his wand arm and gives Bellatrix the most intimidating look he can muster.

 

           “Don’t come any closer!”

 

           “Ha! I’m not scared of a little boy!”

 

           “Yeah, well you should be! You’ve no idea...the people I’ve had at my mercy…”

 

           “You haven’t lived two decades, boy. I’ve seen evil that would destroy you if you so much as witnessed it.”

 

           “I mean it! Stay where you are!” Draco warns when Bellatrix takes another step.

 

           “You actually think you can make demands of --”

 

           “ _Crucio!_ ” he yells deafeningly and Bellatrix stops in her tracks, her grin sliding off her face like a fried egg off a pan. She collapses to the ground and her wand rolls out of her hand as she shrieks in pain. After half a year of using this curse against his will, it seems not to be all that difficult for Draco to cast anymore, and he thought it would be. Vindictiveness infiltrates Draco’s heaving lungs and he walks toward Bellatrix, standing over her with a sneer.

 

           “Don’t _ever_ tell me I didn’t love my parents."

 

           Bellatrix’s eyes widen, unable to hide her fear, but she pulls her twitching lips into a disgusted frown.

 

           “You'll get what's coming to you, child! Pray you end up like your father, on whom The Dark Lord took mercy. As for your mother...she deserved it, betraying my master -- _I_ am the Dark Lord's most faithful servant! _I_ endured fifteen years of Azkaban for him, and I'd just as soon endure fifteen more! That’s why he killed your mother and father and not me, because _I_ know where my loyalties lie!"

 

           Her words saw through the fragile muscle of Draco's heart, leaving shreds of it he knows he'll never be able to put back together. His wand arm falters and he looks down at Bellatrix as though she never insulted his parents, as though nothing matters at all aside from the mention of his mum.

 

           “Mother’s...dead?”

 

           There's the tiniest bit of regret lingering behind the psychotic blaze of Bellatrix's pupils, and somehow that brings his anger back: she truly cared for Narcissa, but apparently not more than she cared for Voldemort.

 

           Something he read in a book by Filnuck Grippihump only a year ago resurfaces, kindling the conflagration inside of him: _Obsession isn't love. But, it can drive someone insane, trying to differentiate between the two._

 

           Seemingly out of nowhere, Rodolphus Lestrange sees his wife on the ground and runs over to her, putting his hands under her arms to pull her up onto her feet.

 

           "All right, my love? Who did this to you?" he rambles, his mind obviously so focused on Bellatrix that he hasn't noticed Draco standing in front of her, just a few feet away.

 

           "Don't touch me, fool! Seize the boy! Either of them, The Dark Lord cares not! Don't just stand here and blubber over me like an idiot!"

 

           It's confusing, having this somewhat-comical argument in the middle of a battle, and Draco hesitates before turning to duel a man who comes up on his right.

 

           "Draco Malfoy? With a mudblood? Ha! The Dark Lord is always right," drawls the nasally voice of Vincent Crabbe's father, someone who was rather fond of Draco until recently.

 

           He wants to respond with, _Yeah, you wouldn't be so pleased if Vincent and I switched places, would you?_ but his throat is weak and he can't quite get the words out. His thoughts are focused on one essential thing: His mother is dead. She will not be there to console him after the war, if he were to survive -- she will not be waiting with his favorite vanilla-almond tea and biscuits to play chess past his bedtime.

 

           As it is, Draco's still facing the reality of growing up, and now he's got to face the fact that everyone he loves is dead, too. He doubts he will ever find someone to care about him unconditionally as his mother had.

 

           As easy as he supposes it would be to disarm Vincent himself, Draco disarms Crabbe Sr. and puts him in a body bind, turning around just in time to dodge a curse from Rodolphus.

 

           " _Cooperio!_ " Draco shouts, and he's surprised when his spell hits Rodolphus square in the chest and the man pauses in the middle of flicking his wand, every visible patch of his skin changing into hard, grey stone. Perhaps getting an Exceeds Expectations on his Arithmancy O.W.L. in order to spend more time studying dark magic has paid off. He's certainly equipped with much more than, " _Expelliarmus!_ " unlike Harry and Ron.

 

           But, Rodolphus has never been nearly as intimidating as his wife, who is now dueling with Granger and seems to be winning.

 

           "How's your arm?" Bellatrix asks, then shrieks with mad laughter as the two of them fire off more curses at each other than Draco can follow. One hits Hermione in the shoulder, and a splatter of blood shows through her lavender nightshirt, but she continues on as though nothing's happened.

 

           Out of the corner of Draco's eye steps Mr. Goyle, who's most likely gone after him on purpose, and Draco casts a shield just before the man can hit him with a Paralysis Hex. In response, Draco aims and shouts, " _Bombarda!_ ", but Goyle blocks it and, of all things, summons a snake. Eyes wide as he backs up carefully from the serpent, Draco wishes more than ever that he were a Parselmouth. If it were a language he could learn instead of having to be born with it, he knows he would have spent every free hour of every day with a book under his nose, or talking with a private tutor. As perplexing as the concept is, Draco has to admit there are definitely some things money can't buy.

 

           The snake's angry hisses are echoed behind Draco and he jumps, whirling around to discover Harry communicating with the damn thing exactly how Draco wishes he could, all while fighting off the mousy-haired woman who discovered them.

 

           For a brief second, it seems as though the snake is about to strike at Draco, but then it turns around and bites Goyle's ankle instead.

 

           _How could_ anyone _be that stupid? There's not a wizard alive who doesn't know The Chosen One is a bloody Parselmouth,_ Draco thinks bitterly.

 

           "Harry, the door! Let's go!" Hermione shouts, and Harry taps Draco's shoulder before running down the hall toward a large hole in the wall that leads outside. "We can apparate over here. Harry, take my hand."

 

           "It doesn't matter where we go. It's the mark. That's how they found us," Potter warns. Hermione furrows her eyebrows and pats out an ember that's lodged itself in her massive hair.

 

           "What are you saying? They tracked Malfoy here?"

 

           "I don't know how, but --"

 

           "What the bloody hell's the problem, then? Haven't I been telling you this entire time we should leave him? If you'd have just listened to me."

 

           As they argue, Malfoy sees a man with long, dirty hair and gut-splattered clothing -- the object of many of his nightmares -- walk behind them, unnoticed, and point his wand at Granger.

 

           More because he wants to get out of here safely and less because he's worried about Granger dying (it would be her fault, really, for continuing to stand there like an idiot), he uses the same curse he used on Rodolphus Lestrange and Greyback is nothing but a grimacing statue. The three of them turn around and startle at the sight of the werewolf, but they look even more surprised when they see Draco standing there with his wand held out toward Greyback.

 

           Draco is too numb to roll his eyes. He runs over to them, knowing he's going to be blamed for saving Granger's life, but he doesn't really care anymore. He can feel his throat closing and distracts himself with the goal of leaving. Grabbing onto Harry's arm, he expects to be pushed away and told he should go rot in a ditch, but instead, his body is being compressed as though he's squeezing himself through a long, narrow tube. Apparition has always felt uncomfortable, and Draco actually prefers to Floo, but he would never admit it to anyone.

 

           He hits the floor unceremoniously when they land and when he gets to his feet, he almost hits the floor again. Something revolting surfaces in his stomach and he runs over to a nearby plastic trash can to expel the poison of grief from his guts. The sound of fingernails scraping briefly against pavement lets Draco know that the other three are here, too, as they should be. He wipes his mouth with a trembling hand, his legs giving out so abruptly that his ass hits the ground with a resounding, "Thwack!" and he groans.

 

           Within seconds, the reality of the last few hours smacks into his thoughts like a bullet passing clean through one of his temples and stopping halfway in his brain. His mother is dead. He has no parents. He's alone -- completely, irrevocably alone. The tears that fall from his eyes are heavier than all the tears he's cried in his entire life combined, and he struggles to keep his head straight with the weight of them.  
  
           Ron and Hermione step toward him cautiously, out of view, but Harry comes within arm's distance and kneels in front of him.   
  
           "Draco, we..." he falters, face shining with empathy as Draco's gaze shifts upward to meet his. "I'm sorry, I don't want to have to do this, but...the mark."   
  
           Sensing danger through his sorrow-clouded vision, Draco springs back onto his feet again and backs up with his wand held out at the three of them. With everything that's happened, he knows, above all, that right now _he_ needs to be the one in control of his choices.   
  
           "Stay away from me! Don't come near me!"   
  
           "They're going to come back for you. They're going to keep coming until you're dead. You understand that, don't you?"   
  
           Draco understands this so intrinsically he feels as though the ground underneath him should crumble away; it's already shifting perilously, more unpredictable than ever. The two people who brought him into this world -- who taught him how to exist and, despite all their flaws, deeply and unequivocally loved him -- are now as present as the whispers of late-night wind; the nebulous specks of stars in a vast sky; or a flower, indistinguishable from soil once it sheds its petals to decompose. This knowledge cripples him and his legs wobble, lips tremulous and eyelids shut tightly in a lame attempt to keep more tears from escaping them.   
  
           He hardly notices when Harry's hand is on his wrist, pulling his wand arm down as he steps right up to Draco, unafraid of the defective person who thrives incorrigibly underneath his cool, perfected exterior. Something about the gentleness of Harry's actions causes him to break down completely and his chest lurches, trying to obtain oxygen through shallow breaths. Harry is stiff with surprise for a moment and tries to reach for his other arm, but Draco pushes him away. When Harry reaches for him again, Draco lashes out, imposing his anger on the latter by mashing his fist into Harry's cheek -- right under the gash he made the previous night -- so he doesn't have to deal with its being imposed on himself.

 

           “Ow! Damnit, Malfoy, would you bloody  -- quit it!”

 

           Reeling back, Harry grabs both of Draco's arms and pins them to his sides. There's not enough in him to entertain the effort of trying to throw Harry off, and it's unpalatably pathetic, which is not an adjective he should be getting used to. After a few minutes of struggling, Draco is as limp as a marionette under Harry’s hands and his head slumps as he uses the last of his energy to hold back a hearty sob.

 

           Harry can tell he's close to giving up. The war's gotten to be too much for him. He's exhausted by the burdens of maturity and death, which really should come in some manner of consecutive order and not all at once. A pang of empathy scratches at the back of his throat, and his voice is gruff when he speaks quietly next to Draco’s ear.

  
           "We need to move on," he says, and Draco knows he means moving onto the next location or doing what has to be done to get rid of the dark mark, but it seems as though he's telling him to move on from the war.

           All of it is too much to handle right now, and Harry knows this, so why can't he give up on Draco like Draco's given up on himself? Why can't he leave him for the Death Eaters and relinquish for him the responsibilities of heeding such a feeble life?   
  
           Draco shakes off one of Harry’s arms and holds it away from him weakly, the undeniable comfort of Harry's vital warmth seeping through his clothing, which is made of fabric delicate the way only old, overused shirts can be. Slowly, Draco's breaths become more manageable. He takes in the right amount of oxygen and starts to observe his surroundings instead of being blinded by a blur of disparate colors: They're standing outside a large, steel building with no lights and there's a sign above its front doors that reads, "London Zoo".

 

           Harry leans back a bit and makes eye contact. He looks perplexed by the fact that Draco's sobs have subsided from gut-wrenching choking noises to tiny, inescapable huffs.  
  
           "Can you apparate?"   
  
           With a nod, he steps away from Harry, shame and embarrassment showing in the downward slope of his neck. Hermione and Ron look at each other, baffled, and Ron shrugs. They regroup, joining hands in a line, and soon they're whizzing through the air until their feet hit solid ground and they stumble, clumsily reorienting themselves.   
  
           Not sparing any time, Harry tells Draco to sit down and takes the arm with the dark mark into his hands.   
  
           "Hermione, I need the Dittany and any numbing potions you have."   
  
           Hermione rummages through her purse and pulls out two bottles: the Dittany and a tiny blue bottle, which she hands to Harry.   
  
           "It's Torplinda. I couldn't find anything stronger."   
  
           "I'm going to be awake for this?!" Draco cries, his pulse picking up when Harry pours cold goop from the blue bottle onto his arm.   
      
           "It'll be done before you have time to think about it. Then it's over. And that's what matters, right?"   
  
           "Isn't there another way? A counter-spell? This is _barbaric_ ," Hermione says, her voice rising.

  
           "This is Riddle."   
  
           She swallows and backs away in fear, joining Ron, who puts an arm around her.   
  
           As Harry raises his wand, Draco stops his sturdy arm with his hand, knowing nothing at all could make him ready for what's about to happen.

           "What if it doesn't work?"   
  
           "It will. Right, Hermione?"   
  
           "Well, only if the mark is skin-deep, Harry, or else --" Hermione stops mid-sentence when Harry gives her a look of warning, then he turns back to Draco.   
  
           "Listen to me. You are _not_ going to die. This is just a bump in the road, yeah? It could be a lot worse, but you've made it, mate. It has to get bad before it gets better. And it _will_ get better."   
  
           Draco searches Harry's intense eyes; it's apparent, and has been apparent for quite some time now, he supposes, that Harry believes in Draco ferociously. It's all there in Harry's resolute expression, as blatant and tangible as the folds in the skin of his palms; he forces himself to find trust in Harry for this moment, even if it comes back to bite him later, and looks away, ready for the pain to come, but it doesn't. He hears flesh being sloughed off his forearm and can't resist the urge to see what's happened: There's now a strip of raw skin or muscle (he can't tell) where the mark used to be that bubbles with red for a second before spilling thick streams of blood onto the grass below.   
  
           He can't see anything for a moment and thinks maybe he's died, which seems impossible, but then he opens his eyes and his skin is stitching itself together. The pain is evident then, probably because the Dittany has taken over for the Torplinda, and he hears himself yelp.   
  
           All at once, the snaps of a dozen Death Eaters apparating surrounds him, Harry grabs his hand, and he tries his best to focus on staying conscious so he doesn't splinch as they whirl through the air again.

 

           They're at a much higher altitude now, looking down on England's extensive number of buildings, of which Draco can cover a large area with his pinky. The sky is a breathtakingly-vivid blue against the grey and white mountains, like a husky's eyes. But, the sight that greets him when he looks down at his left arm does not match the tranquility of this patch of land. Harsh against his skin, which matches the snow crunching under his feet, is the familiar intertwining of black snakes through a skull -- the dark mark.

 

           It didn’t work.

 

           “Potter,” Draco breathes, his eyes stretching to the size of golf balls as he stares at his arm. Harry rushes over, reflexes as stunning as ever, to Draco’s side and when he sees the mark, the blood falls out of his face like ink out of a fountain pen.

 

           “What do we do?” he questions softly until he’s able to tear his gaze away to look at Hermione. “Hermione, what do we do?!”

 

           She and Ron hurry to join them, observing the issue with matching looks of horror. Hermione gasps and holds a hand to her mouth.

 

           “Oh, no... _no_ , I _knew_ this would happen…” she rambles.

 

           “Don’t tell me --” Harry starts, but Hermione, shaken, interrupts him.

 

           “I think...I think we need to cut it off completely. The curse is too strong -- it’s going to be there as long as his arm is there. I wish I could think of something else, but you’re right, Harry...this is exactly what You-Know-Who wants.”

 

           “We’ve already been here too long. Let’s move,” directs Harry, and they apparate to yet another location -- a muddy riverbank covered in yellow irises and hip-length grass. Draco lands farther away from the rest of the group, and the sound of raised voices is something he's taken aback by hearing.

 

           "...too much, Harry! He's not worth it! We don't even know how to do what Hermione's talking about!"

 

           "We'll figure it out! What else would you have me do, Ron? I don't want any more innocent people dying because of me!"

 

           "He's not dying because of you! He's dying because he's an idiot!"

 

           "He's not dying at all if I can help it!"

 

           Draco's fingers curl in at his sides impatiently and he steps toward them. Voldemort has taken everything from him -- his parents, his opinions, and, most importantly, his childhood. The Dark Lord's hateful, serpent-like red eyes blaze behind Draco's wispy grey ones.

 

           If Voldemort is going to take his arm from him, too, then that will be the last thing he will take. Would his father finally be proud of Draco, if he were here? Or would bravery in this circumstance be distasteful?

 

           There's no one around anymore to goad him into or away from his decisions.

 

           "I'll do it," Draco says coldly, no doubt or hesitation in his voice whatsoever. Harry, Ron, and Hermione (who, milliseconds ago, was inches away from sorting out their argument herself) whip their heads to face him.

 

           "You, er, know how to --?" Harry asks skeptically.

 

           Lucius' critical presence looms under his anger like oil under a fire.

 

           "I'm not _useless_. I know what I'm doing better than you lot, anyway. And I want this over with. Now."

 

           Harry's eyebrows raise; he's impressed by something -- most likely the fact that Draco's not curled up on a bed, crying away about his dead mummy, waiting for Death to sing him to sleep.

 

           "Tell us what you need," Harry says, collected and dependable, a trait that always seems to throw Draco for a loop.

 

           "Give me a small cauldron, the Dittany, a bit of crushed bicorn horn, and part of an augurey claw."

 

           Hermione stands there and gawks at him silently, trying to figure out what kind of potion he's attempting to make. He opens his mouth to yell at her to get a move on, but Harry beats him to it.

 

           "Hermione!"

 

           "Oh -- yes! Sorry!" she responds quickly, jamming her hand into her purse to pull out the ingredients and hand them to Malfoy.

 

           "If you think he's still coming with us after this," Ron spits bitterly and, surprisingly, it's Hermione who retorts this time.

 

           "Ron, stop it! What's gotten into you?"

 

           "Oh, hell...so, we’re _both_ on that smarmy little ferret's side now, are we?"

 

           "You are _not_ a murderer, so stop acting like one."

 

           With one sentence, Hermione is able to shut Ron up more effectively than a handful of arguments with Harry. Draco is completely unconcerned with their bantering right now, however. He's focused on one thing, and one thing only: getting rid of this mark, severing his last tie to Voldemort, and doing it _right now_.

 

           Just as he's finished stirring the ingredients together so that the surface of the potion is a deep, navy blue, the Death Eaters appear again, their presence having been delayed by the temporary nonexistence of his mark.

 

 

           Gathering the cauldron in his hands and casting an anti-spill charm on it, he grabs for Hermione's arm and they're traveling to yet another destination, this time to a field of unseasonably-dry weeds. Draco never realized how diverse London's scenery could be until today.

 

           Without a second to spare, Draco holds his wand over the cauldron and whispers, " _Oleum elixis_ ", which causes the potion to bubble and steam. Then he uses a simple severing charm to cut off the very end of one of his sleeves, making it into a turnicate that he ties tightly but sloppily with his teeth and right hand.

 

           "The Torplinda," he demands, holding his hand out, but not looking to see who drops the bottle into it. The process begins again: His skin becomes numb on the surface -- partially by lack of blood flow, but mostly by use of the Torplinda -- and so does his grip on his wand. For a terrifying, essential moment, he ceases to move at all. There's only one more step, he knows, because using the Obsignatus potion he's concocted will be automatic once he's losing a fatal amount of blood. But, this final step is taking more audacity to comprehend than he has had the chance to build up in his entire lifetime. He's not a Gryffindor. He doesn't like pain; hell, he barely even tolerates it. He just knows that once he's experiencing it, there's nothing to be done but ride it out.

 

           It's different when the person on the other side of the wand is himself, inflicting the pain purposely. Of course everything in his body is resisting the idea, because who in his or her right mind would ever willingly cut an arm off?

 

           Yet, Harry is staring at him determinedly, holding Draco to a standard no one's set for him before. The standard now is simple, laid out in front of him like blueprints written for a two year old, and Draco is consumed by doubt that he will be able to carry through with it. Draco is no hero. He is a man who acts only when he's sure of the consequences that will arise from such actions.

 

           The only exception to this, it seems, has been Harry. Because Harry is so intuitive, and because he is able to read into the motives of others so thoroughly, he's been able to enrage Draco with little more than a single word or misinterpreted glance. Hasn't he always cared so much about what Harry thinks of him, even before they met? Hasn't he always wanted to spur jealousy in Harry, so that it wouldn't be the other way around?

 

           "Malfoy," Harry urges, eyes huge and expectant.

 

           His focus returns to the mark on his forearm. The crater-like eye sockets etched into the mark's skull design are overlaid by Voldemort's cruel, humanless grin, and he can imagine words like snakes tumbling out of The Dark Lord's mouth as though they were being spoken aloud.

 

           _"Useless, disposable, incompetent, substitute. No one escapes the most powerful wizard of all time!"_

           But, Voldemort's greatest ammunition is not spells. It's deception.

 

           His shaking hand raises his wand, driven by a burst of pure loathing for everything that Voldemort is, and a venomous green beam of light shoots from the end of it, following a distinct path into his skin, slicing away sinews of muscle and bone until the knees of his pants are drenched in the color of polished rubies, his relentless blood pouring out in every direction from the unfathomably-large wound he's created. Only a few seconds later, everything from the tips of his fingers to his elbow is lying on the ground, motionless -- detached like a knocked-out tooth.

 

           On instinct, as he knew it would be, Draco pulls his stump of an arm into the cauldron and hisses as the wound seals itself off.

 

           All too quickly, the Death Eaters have followed them once more and Draco grabs Harry's arm with only his right this time, letting his eyes wander to the other half of his left, a great, canvas-white hunk of flesh in the middle of a crimson puddle. It's a horrific scene at first glance, but after a short, comprehensive breath, it's a reminder not only of a physically-severed part of himself, but of a severed loyalty with the last man on Earth to whom he wishes to be loyal right now. A severed part of his ideals. A severed part of the person Draco's figured out he never wants to be.

 

\------------------------------------

 

           When they're all positive that the dark mark will not be returning to Draco's arm, they set up camp in a forest of tall, leafless trees weighed down with heavy mounds of snow. Draco has Runcorn's wand taken away from him and is sitting with what's left of his arms magically stuck together behind his back; it's uncomfortable, but it could be worse. The tent is carpeted and Granger's conjured a crackling fire in the middle of the room to fight off the cold.

 

           The image of Greyback's blood-smeared lips keeps coming back to him. All his thoughts entertain the possibility that it could very well have been his own mother's blood there on Greyback's face -- that perhaps the werewolf had ended her life by tearing her limb from limb until his feral hunger was satiated. It's exceedingly difficult to keep himself together, but he manages it as he's managed his emotions his entire life. He'd rather die than be caught crying in front of Granger and Weasley, anyway. The amount of himself that he's shown Potter is unforgivable.

 

           There's an intermittent jab of pain where he cut off his forearm and he refuses to ask for anything with which to dull it. He'd rather have some Dreamless Sleep Potion so he can rest it off, but too much has happened and he needs to be awake to come to terms with his new reality.

 

           No matter how hard he pretends he can cope with his mother's death, her absence still affects him in everything he does. He has to think about breathing or he'll forget, is unable so much as to picture himself eating without wanting to vomit, and whenever he looks at his skin, the same shade of pale white as his mother's, he's reminded that he was a vital part of someone else's life until his parents drifted out of existence.

 

           Hermione and Ron go to sleep relatively early, retreating to separate rooms after an intense argument about Draco in which Potter did not participate; it seems that he and Weasley aren't on speaking terms right now. Since they've settled in and put up their tent, he hasn't said a word to anyone.

 

           As far as Draco can tell, camping out in the forest under a ratty tent seems normal to these three. That's probably where Potter's been this entire time, avoiding snatchers and the like. With Granger's advanced defensive spells, which he can admit to himself are quite impressive, it's a pretty good idea: never staying in the same place for too long, hiding out in scarcely-populated areas. Apparently, Potter and Weasley aren't nearly as stupid as he'd assumed they were. Although, if all the stories he's heard about Harry really are true...

 

           "There's a camping mat over there. I don't really think you'll have to worry about a sleep schedule. It's not like we're considering putting you on watch," Harry's quiet voice says over his thoughts. It's always odd hearing Harry speak. Draco never expects his voice to be so low, because it clashes with his boyish appearance. Somehow, picturing Harry back in his school robes with his lopsided glasses, mussed hair, crooked Gryffindor tie, and rosy cheeks makes him want to forget about everything that's happened, if only for a second.

 

           "I assumed if you were wary enough to keep my arms behind my back, you wouldn't exactly trust me to watch over all of you while you sleep . Also, I wouldn't be much help without a wand, would I? Unlike you, I prefer to fight like a wizard."

 

           The faintest sign of a smile tugs at Harry's lips and Draco finds that he's about to mirror it, but it's not difficult for him to keep his frown.

 

           "You didn't seem to care when you punched me in the face. Twice."

 

           Draco looks at the carpet and wishes he could twirl one of its fibers between his fingers. Then, at least, he'd have something to do.

 

           "I forgot to ask -- did it hurt?"

 

           Moving so that he's sitting sideways against the wall, Harry turns to Draco with a playful glint in his eye.

 

           "You aren't concerned about me, are you?"

 

           Draco's face feels slightly warm when he responds, but his tone doesn't suggest anything contradictory to the words that come out of his mouth.

 

           "You wish, Potter. I just want to know if I throw a good punch."

 

           With a shrug, Potter raises his eyebrows and fiddles with Draco's wand, trading it back and forth between his hands.

 

           "I've had worse."

 

           "Yeah? From whom?"

 

           "My cousin's never liked me very much. He's kind of like you, actually, except he's fat. And stupid."

 

           "And a muggle."

 

           A look of irritation passes over Harry's face, but after a deep breath, he only seems curious.

 

           "What is it that you hate about muggles? Did your parents tell you they're all Hitler or something?"

 

           So, the inevitable referring to his parents in the past tense has begun.

 

           "I'm not sure you want to start this conversation right now, Potter. It's been a long day. For both of us."

 

           "I'm not trying to pick a fight with you, honestly. I'm just curious."

 

           Draco quirks an eyebrow and tries to decipher Harry's expression to see if he should go on. As always, though, he's impossible to read, a million different emotions bleeding into the line of his lips. So, he decides just to talk about it. It's been a while since he had a good, intellectual discussion with anyone. Harry's one of the few people he knows who may be capable of holding one.

 

           "Well, it's not that we think muggles are savages, really, although the way they live is less than desirable. It's more a matter of blood purity...You see, when wizards reproduce with muggles, there's less of a chance that their children will be magical. Muggleborns are just as rare as squibs, statistically speaking, and, honestly, how frustrating would it be to skip out on eleven years of education regarding the Wizarding World?

 

           "I'd be _livid_ if I were born into a muggle family. Not knowing about Quidditch until you came to Hogwarts, can you imagine?"

 

           "Funny enough, I can," Harry deadpans, successfully making Draco feel like an idiot. He has a tendency to do that. It's unfair that Potter is intelligent without the necessity of knowledge, whereas Draco has worked very hard to obtain his intellectual capacity, which is still, it seems, sub-par compared with Granger's, as his father pointed out to him every year he came home for the Summer holidays.

 

           The moment Harry caught the snitch in their second year had been one of the worst moments of Draco's life. Here was this boy who had barely a year's practice on a broom (unlike Draco, who's been practicing since he was two) and somehow he's naturally better than Draco. He wondered for so long, _How could it be that Potter is better at Quidditch than I am? How can he be better if he's had no practice, and I have?_

 

           It took many years to figure out that Harry is one of those people who doesn't have to try to be good at something; he just is. Draco has never had this talent, but he's always wanted it, and hated Harry for having it.

 

           "Going to let me continue?" Draco sneers weakly, trying to fan a flame that isn't there. He might as well be blowing on a lantern. Is it getting more difficult to be angry with Potter? Is Potter becoming less irritating? Or is he simply getting older?

 

           Harry nods and flips his hand in a gesture that nonverbally provokes Draco onward with his useless tirade, but Draco realizes he doesn't have anything to say. He opens his mouth to talk about his parents' views on the subject, which might be enough to rile Potter, but the words don't come out. It's already proving to be too difficult to keep himself numb -- mentioning his parents out loud would break him all over again.

 

           After a few minutes of silence, Harry disregards the conversation and looks outside. Draco supposes he does have a job to do...they're not exactly safe. Snatchers could be in any forest at any time. He was there for most of their orders and he knows their routes pretty well. But, he doubts they'll be coming through any time soon. The Dark Lord will definitely still be furious.

 

           Potter gets up and wanders into the kitchen, yawning and ruffling his hair nonchalantly as he takes a tea kettle out of one of the cupboards and lights the stove.

 

           "Tea?" he asks, turning to Draco.

 

           "Why are you using a kettle? Why don't you just use your wand?"

 

           Harry shrugs and as he's pulling two mugs from a much higher cabinet, his shirt springs up and displays part of his smooth, pale back -- all masculine lines of muscle and bone.

 

       _When did he change into pajamas, anyway?_ Draco wonders, and with a hint of lust pinching at his gut, he watches Potter's flannel pants cling to his thighs, not leaving much to the imagination. Before he can tear his eyes away, Potter has set the mugs on the counter and turns around. Their eyes meet each other for a moment and it's obvious Potter knows he was ogling him; Draco looks at the ground and curses his face for being so hot.

 

           "I didn't say I wanted any tea," he mumbles half-heartedly.

 

           "Well, I'm making you some, anyway." When Draco dares to look up, Harry is leaning against the counter with his arms crossed over his chest and a contemplative frown. "So, what do you want?"

 

           "Peppermint," Draco answers, his voice quiet with embarrassment and nostalgia as he remembers the night Potter soothed his post-nightmare nerves with a cup of the same kind of tea his mother would give him when he had a stomachache. "It's my favorite."

 

           Harry swallows and looks to the side, his chin small and square in profile.

 

           "Mine, too, actually."

 

           It's not true. Draco likes peppermint tea quite a bit, especially at night, but his favorite will always be a vanilla-almond blend his mother used to buy from a high-end tea shop in London near Diagon Alley, which is run by a fat old woman with an extraordinarily wealthy and equally fat husband. He's not sure why he's lied about something so insignificant, but it's nice to pretend he has something in common with Potter besides a love for Quidditch.

 

           More silence passes by while they wait for the kettle to boil (How in the world do muggles carry on like this every day?) and Draco starts to think about Voldemort again. Since The Dark Lord had made him and his mother watch Lucius die after an hour of mindless torment, a spark of loathing has ignited itself in him. Everything that's transpired since then has only aggravated this spark, and after he cut off his arm, it became a hellish display of fireworks that's been dulled only momentarily by his grief.

 

           But, as the nerves in his arm contract under their recent abuse, the fireworks start to come back like kernels of popping corn -- one or two tiny explosions, followed by a few more, then a hundred simultaneously.

 

           He clenches his fist and grunts as he pounds it into the soft carpet, which makes Harry flinch. If he had Voldemort under his control right now, he'd tear him limb from limb and charm his monstrous snake to devour him languidly, as had been done to Hogwarts' former Muggle Studies teacher only months ago. How many other people had these kind of thoughts about Voldemort? Did Harry?

 

           "He's taken everything from us," Draco says aloud, looking up at Harry to gauge his reaction. Harry knits his eyebrows.

 

           "Er...You-Know-Who?"

 

           "I'm sick of this, this...mindless destruction! That's all it is, isn't it? You know, every one of his death eaters has found something he's incapable of experiencing, something like --"

 

           "-- love."

 

           Having let his eyes wander to the carpet as he tried to comprehend his thoughts enough to express them verbally, Draco freezes when he looks up at Harry. His usual intense gaze has softened under his glasses, and he's staring at Malfoy the way he would be staring at a friend, or someone worth his admiration. As though Draco's told him the war is over, Voldemort is dead, and their parents have come back to life.

 

           "Yes," Draco breathes, swallowing down a feeling of fondness he doesn't quite want to face yet.

 

           The tea kettle starts to whistle, forcing silence into their conversation, and Harry points his wand at it without looking away from Draco. When the whistle dies down, Harry finally allows his eyes to be drawn away to his hands as he pours hot water into both of their mugs.

 

           Then, he comes to sit cross-legged in front of Draco and puts a steaming mug on the ground between them.

 

           "Pity I can't actually pick it up and drink it. Didn't think about that, did you?" Draco drawls, knowing he didn't ask for any tea in the first place.

 

           Harry scoots back a little, narrows his eyes and angles his wand at Draco, undoing Hermione's sticking hex.

 

           "I'm not afraid of you."

 

           At any other time in his life, Draco's sure he would have responded with something along the lines of, "Then you're an idiot," but he's aware of the necessity of his situation now, and there may even be a common goal coming to fruition.

 

           "I know," he responds, stretching his right wrist and staring longingly at the missing half of his left arm before picking up the mug of hot tea, blowing on it, and taking a sip. "I wish that were a mistake."

 

           Harry glances at Draco over the rim of his own mug, revealing a small smile when he sets it back down on the ground. Draco doesn't return the smile, but there's a palpable release of tension in his shoulders and his cloak feels a little warmer and more comfortable than normal.

 

           "We'll win this war. There's no way it'll go on like this...besides, history doesn't allow much time for power-hungry lunatics."

 

           "Are you saying good always conquers evil?"

 

           "No. I'm saying that truth always conquers lies."

 

           Malfoy turns his head to watch the outlines of branches sway in the darkness. It would be much colder without Granger's spells surrounding the tent, but as it is, it's conflictingly pleasant. They finish their tea with only the chirping of crickets and scuttlings of woodland creatures to make up for the silence, and Harry takes their mugs into the kitchen before heading back to the mouth of the tent.

 

           The more Draco stares out at the pitch-black forest that wraps around them, the more acrimonious he feels that his parents have had their abilities to experience this same view taken away from them. They could be here with him, watching the stars, reassuring him, protecting him. But, Harry's right. Voldemort cares nothing for family or love. He cares nothing for watching the stars, or playing chess, or drinking tea, or bringing about a twinkle of connection in another human's eye.

 

           He only cares for himself and his obsession with a limited, ruinous set of ideals.

 

           Draco replays his conversation with Potter over and over again, until he's sure that hours have gone by and he's just been staring at the carpet, absorbed and consumed by his thoughts.

 

         _Truth always conquers lies._

 

           Is it because his parents aren't here to contradict him that he's stuck on Dumbledore's empathy, Harry's kindness, and The Dark Lord's ruthless cruelty? How can anyone follow someone who doesn't understand basic human emotion? Has he no idea of Bellatrix's deranged infatuation with him, nor the families that were built long before he rose to power? How did Malfoy ever think he wanted a life where greed and pain replaced love? How did his parents?

 

           His mother and father were Voldemort's unlucky pawns. They were not supposed to die before they could see their son mature and form his own opinions about things. Had they been afforded more time to live, they might be seeing what Draco is only beginning to see now. What he's never been able to see before.

 

           He's always been on the wrong side. There's never been anything rewarding about following Voldemort and his omnipotent hatred. How he feels about his mother and father is exactly the kind of feeling with which Harry's side is fighting. They're fighting to preserve happiness, laughter, picnics in meadows of pastel-colored flowers, and staying up late just to enjoy someone's company. Not to take all of that away so the world can be filled with emptiness.

 

           Draco stands up before his legs know what they're doing and walks over to Harry, who shifts calmly to look at him.

 

           "Need something?" Harry asks offhandedly.

 

           With a deep breath, Draco gathers more courage than he's ever been able to have and utters his conclusion, the sentence he knows will mark his path from this point on.

 

           "I want to fight," he starts, taking another deep breath and forcing himself to finish what he's started without too much hesitation. "Not for you and not for the Order. For my parents. And for myself. I want to help you kill him."

 


	5. Lost and Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"You will love him, in the way you walk a tightrope — in the way people learn to fall asleep in a war zone."_ — Lang Leav

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for all the wait with this chapter! I don't know why it took me so long to write. I really hope you like it, though, and please let me know if you like it — I'm struggling to finish this one and any support I get makes it more worthwhile for me to continue.
> 
> I'd like to give a shoutout to [this fantastic human](http://pansexualparkinson.tumblr.com) for being a wonderful friend, for their support, and for looking over this chapter for me. You are the apple to Sluggy's pine.

          Harry blinks up at Draco, his eyebrows raising sardonically.

 

          "Whoa, wait a second. You want to  _ help _ me?"

 

          "Do you need an extendable ear, Potter? Because I thought I made myself perfectly clear."

 

          "Intimidating" is never a word Draco has been able to associate with Potter, but as the latter uses the Quidditch-calloused palms of his hands to push himself off the ground and stands up, his face a little too close to Draco's, Draco finds that he's just a little bit scared...of him, of his rejection, or of the fact that they’ve been in closer quarters for the past three weeks than in all the time they’ve known each other, but most likely a culmination of all three.

 

          "Look...I can tell you're upset. But, you need time to think about what's happened before you go signing yourself up for something you aren't actually willing to do."

 

          "Well, of course I'm upset! Wouldn't you be?"

 

          "I would. And I am. But, I've had about seven years to deal with being upset."

 

          "And how  _ are _ you dealing with it? You're gearing up to defeat him. Just because you've had more time to think about it than I have doesn't mean the revenge you seek is less valid than mine."

 

          "I'm not doing this for revenge, Draco. What's done is done. Killing’s never done anything but make more bodies."

 

          "When did I tell you you could start calling me by my first name, Potter?"

 

          Harry pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes in exasperation.

 

          "Is this really an issue we need to be concerned with right now?"

 

          "Only friends call each other by first name. We are  _ not _ friends."

 

          "No...we aren’t. But, after all these years, after all we've been through, do you still think we should pretend to be strangers? We don't even know if we'll make it out of this war. Honestly, isn't it a little too late to hold on to who we were when we were kids? Hate is  _ childish _ , and we aren’t children anymore."

 

          Draco laughs mockingly and leans toward Harry, his eyes glinting on the edge of belligerence so that he can mask the hope that's burning his throat.

 

          "Are you saying we  _ should _ be friends, then? Give each other hugs and share secrets and all that other crap you were talking about a week ago?"

 

          "Everything's black and white with you when it doesn't have to be. I thought by now you'd realize I've offered a truce. Was I not clear enough by helping you? Do we have to shake hands, as well?"

 

          Harry takes a small step back and extends his hand toward Malfoy with an annoyed frown and an eye roll. Even though Draco knows Harry's being sarcastic, for a tense moment, he stares at the hand and swallows, remembering all the time he'd spent before Hogwarts getting ready to offer his friendship to The Boy Who Lived, thinking that his status and eloquence would make anyone want to be friends with him. But, Harry had found Weasley first. Of course he did. 

 

          Until now, he'd obsessed over why Harry would make that choice when the answer is obvious. Malfoy's never had close friends. He doesn't understand what true friendship is, and he understood the concept even less back then. The way Weasley and Potter met that day was something orchestrated by a fate that ultimately worked in Harry's favor. Harry's always shunned politics, whereas Draco's upbringing forbade him to do so.

 

          But, knowing the reasons Harry didn't shake his hand makes the incident hurt even more, because he can't blame it on Harry. He can only blame himself.

 

          Draco snorts and crosses his arms, using anger to distract from the wave of wistful misery that falls upon him.

 

          “Go fuck yourself."

 

          For some reason, Harry looks bored by this statement and narrows his eyes, cocking his head to the side observantly. Draco wishes he had his wand, so he could hex a reaction out of him. Anything but this awful pity he’s developed.

 

          "Give it a few days, then come back to me about your position in the war. Hermione will be on watch in an hour and she'll want your hands behind your back again, so you should probably get some sleep," he finalizes gently, sitting down again. 

 

          Draco is distracted by his thoughts, but confirms his tired neutrality with a “Fine,” thankful to end their conversation. Then, he walks back to his previous spot on the carpet.

 

          "And Draco?" Malfoy turns back to Harry, whose neutral expression is tainted with sadness. "Keeping all of this to yourself is the loneliest thing you can do. Trust me."

 

          As the meaning of Harry's words churns in his brain, Draco tries to ignore the part of him that does trust Harry, a lot more than he should. When Harry and his friends were taken to Draco's manor, he was willing to put everything on the line because he realized that he adamantly believed Harry was the only one who could rectify what Voldemort's done. And even though he should be more resentful that this action might have contributed to both of his parents' deaths, if he had to do it all over, he'd save Harry’s life again.

 

          Yes, somehow he knows, maybe within the deepest, most impenetrable cicatrix of his heart, he's always trusted Harry. He just doesn't trust himself, yet.

 

\-------------------

 

          The next few days can only be described as cold and still. No matter how harsh the air feels, the wind doesn't blow and the trees stand inanimately over newly-frosted grass. They've set up camp by a lake of solid ice — a pleasantly mundane strip of land on top of a hill in the Irish countryside. 

 

          At some point, Ron had said his brother, Charlie, brought him here before he left for Rome, or wherever he is...Draco stopped trying to eavesdrop on his and Potter's conversation halfway through because he couldn't care less about Weasley or his family.

 

          Hermione's on watch now, leaning against the mouth of the tent with her legs stretched out in front of her, looking out at the lake, but seeing only her thoughts.

 

          The setting is peaceful aesthetically, yet a hideous amount of anger is still stirring in Draco, and only three days after his disagreement with Potter, he's found himself consumed by revenge. He's done exactly what Potter asked. He's thought about it (he's never really not thinking about it) and he knows, without a doubt, that he will do whatever it takes to bring Voldemort down and avenge his parents' deaths.

 

          But, Draco can see now that he was impulsive with his proposition to fight. Did he really expect to be welcomed into Potter's little circle with open arms after being enemies for six years? And just because he doesn't have the Dark Mark anymore doesn't mean they don't still see him as a Death Eater, if having his arms stuck behind his back all day is anything to go by.

 

          This time he can't rely on the tiny bit of sympathy Harry's shown him. It's obvious what he needs to do, and he knows it won't be easy, but at least it's something he's very good at: gaining favor. There's no way around it. Either he has to earn their trust or have something they need, and the former doesn't seem very likely.

 

          So, to have something they need, he'll first have to find out exactly what it is they're doing — what they intended to extract from the Lestranges' vault and what that has to do with Voldemort and the prophecy, assuming all his father's speculations about the prophecy are correct (which they must be, otherwise why would Harry be attempting to do something as dangerous as breaking into Gringotts?).

 

          His first thought is of books and Granger. Granger  _ must _ be carrying a billion books on whatever it is they're doing and he'd bet that if they were anywhere, they'd be in the tiny beaded bag with the extension charm that she wears slung over her shoulder. But, there's the first flaw in the plan. With his arms behind his back, no wand, and a constantly-vigilant Hermione, getting into that bag is impossible.

 

_           Well _ , Draco thinks nervously,  _ maybe it's time to ask for some of that Dreamless Sleep Potion. _

 

          Looking over at Hermione, he frowns. Just having her out of the way wouldn't work because he'd run the risk of the other two catching him in the act.

 

          He's definitely going to have to slip something into a kettle from which they all happen to be drinking. 

 

_           Potter _ . 

 

          Draco's stomach jolts unpleasantly as he entertains the idea of using Harry's trust to his advantage. Unlike the other two, Harry would probably be the last to expect Draco to slip anything into their drinks at this point, so he won't be eyeing the kettle.

 

          If Draco's caught, though, Harry will revert to hating him. Every bit of trust that he has in him, no matter how unconventionally it developed in the first place, will be lost. They'll be back to square one. But, why should he care about sacrificing something he's had for only a few weeks? He never wanted Harry as an ally in the first place.

 

_           Did he? _

 

          "Hey."

 

          Whipping his head around, Draco is surprised to see Harry looming over him, his hair messier than usual, as though he's just gotten out of bed.

 

          "What do you want?" Draco responds, not really sure why he's using such a bitter tone. Maybe he just wants to keep Potter on his toes.

 

          Harry seems a bit put off by this and tries to hold back a yawn, but fails. The dark circles under his eyes haven't faded. In fact, they seem even more visible now than before.

 

          "Have you thought about what I said?"

 

          Draco's eyes briefly flick over to the kettle that's gleaming on the counter behind Harry.

 

          "Still thinking."

 

          Nodding, Harry turns and walks into the kitchen. He places his hand on the handle of the kettle and lights the stove with a lazy flick of his wand and another yawn.

 

          "Tea?"

 

          "Actually...do you have any of that dreamless sleep potion lying about?"

 

          "Nightmares again?"

 

          " _ Again _ ? I've never —"

 

          "Don’t. I’m only asking you to nod."

 

          The constricting muscles in his knuckles would like to protest Harry’s assumption, but he knows better. So, he does nod, doing his best to appear sheepish about it so Harry will think he's embarrassed about admitting this fault instead of lashing out at him defensively, as he normally would.

 

          "Fine, okay. Just give me the damn potion."

 

          Harry smirks and summons a small phial of purple liquid. As he walks back and hands it over, their fingers making contact briefly enough to be dismissed, Draco swallows, suddenly feeling sick, and pushes down the urge to wipe that smirk right off his face.

 

          "See? That wasn't so hard."

 

          "Fuck off."

 

          The grin hovering in front of him is all straight, white teeth and dark lips. Draco shivers, although the room is filled with warmth from another one of Granger's blue fires.

 

          "That's what I'm good at."

 

          Draco's eyes follow Harry blankly as he goes back into one of the rooms (most likely the one that Ron and Hermione are also occupying) and he sighs, making his way toward the tea kettle with the phial still in his hands.

 

_           Weasley made tea last night and Granger made it two nights ago, so that means tonight is Harry's night and everyone will be drinking from this pot, unless they fall out of routine. _

 

          If all things go according to plan, there are three possible outcomes: 1) His offer to help Harry win the war against Voldemort will be accepted because he has information about Bellatrix that they desperately need, 2) Draco will find out he actually has nothing to offer at all, or 3) Harry and his friends will discover that Draco's slipped them a sleeping draught and leave him on a mountainside to die.

 

          A morbid image passes through his mind of Harry staring at him, hurt and disappointment evident as he shakes his head, saying, "I trusted you" while Draco stands stiffly over a frost-bitten field, feeling as though Harry's just dug fingernails through his chest and wrapped his firm hand around Draco's heart, ripping it unceremoniously from its sinews and apparating away.

 

          What would Draco do then? Apparate to Hogwarts, which is taken over by Death Eaters? Apparate to the Weasleys, who will spit in his face? Apparate to Lovegood, whose daughter was just kept locked in the Malfoys' basement for almost a month? To his estranged aunt? Or maybe he'd just apparate back to his manor, cast a disillusionment charm on himself, and try not to die while he packed his things to leave the country.

 

_           Or just turn himself into Voldemort, so he can see his parents again... _

 

          After making sure no one is watching him, pouring half the phial into the kettle, then sitting back down on the carpet, Draco wipes away the tears that are bubbling up from his lower eyelids. With a deep breath, he tries to clear his head, but it doesn't work. 

 

          He remembers on his seventh birthday, he had thrown a tantrum because his cake didn't taste as good as the cakes he'd had for previous birthdays. In his anger, he demanded his parents take the "disgusting mound of slime" back to the shop from which they bought it and was confused when his mother looked up with sad, glossy eyes. She had told him quietly that she couldn't take the cake back, because she made it herself, and Draco had proceeded to get even more angry, wondering why in the world his mother wouldn't just go to Saccharia's Sweets like she does every year and buy him one, instead of trying to bake when they all know she's pants at it.

 

          If he could have anything in the world right now, he'd have his mother bake him another cake, just like the one she made that day: with emerald green frosting, because it's his favorite color, and a poorly-iced baby Draco riding a broomstick around the edge as his white hair stands in cartoonish zig zags on his head. He'd eat as many pieces as he could stomach, because the cake truly wasn't so bad, and he'd tell his mother it was the best thing he'd ever eaten, just so he could bring out the light in her eyes one last time.

 

          Draco's tears stream freely over his face now, with no one in the room to see them, and he lets his head fall against the arm of a chair, closing his eyes. Every breath he takes is a horrendous effort; the chilly air from outside seems to sneak in and surround him. 

 

          The only thing that manages to calm him down after a while is thinking of his dream from about a week ago in which he had kissed Harry, yet when he recalls it, the dream changes. Harry returns the kiss and pulls Draco into his arms, cupping the back of his head in one of his strong palms. But, he's gentle and electric, with lips that feel like Pansy's did, only much warmer. His skin is smooth and supple, the pads of his fingers blazing hot, crackling like loose embers.

 

          The tears stop falling and the smile that comes upon Draco's face is morose, but it comes, nonetheless. With a pounding headache, he falls asleep where he is, his head against the chair and his knees tucked up to his neck.

 

          His sleep is fitful and filled with the whispering of familiar voices. Unconsciousness teases him by dangling itself just out of reach, behind a display of disruptive lights that plays across the underside of his eyelids.

 

          When the whispering becomes actual words, he keeps his eyes closed, intent on hearing them.

 

          "...a complete wreck. I mean, anyone would be, after what he's gone through, but how am I supposed to defeat You-Know-Who and help someone who won’t even admit he  _ wants _ help at the same time?"

 

          "I don't know, Harry. Nobody's forcing you to help Malfoy...He's of age. He can take care of himself, as harsh as that may sound. Don't you think the outcome of the war is more important than saving one person? And you've already saved him. He's not being tracked anymore; he's not rotting away in a cell. 

          "You took care of him like you would a wounded animal. But, there comes a time when you have to let animals go. You can't keep a bird with a broken wing in a box forever just so you know that it's safe."

 

          "Er...right, okay. But, what if he  _ chooses _ to stay? What if Malfoy really does want to help us?"

 

          "Then...I would say that you should still be willing to turn him loose when the time comes. 

          "I know you care about him, but just caring about someone doesn't make them care about you. Don't let him get the satisfaction of hurting you. You give too much, Harry, and, sometimes, I don't even think you realize it.”

 

          “I just wish he didn’t act like such a prat, because...well, you’ve seen it, haven’t you? He’s changed somehow. It’s like he’s two different people, and they’re constantly fighting each other. I don’t understand it. I don’t understand  _ him _ . Even when I think I do, I don’t.”

 

          “I doubt anyone’s bothered to understand him as much as you have. To me, he seems like he’s spent so much time being what was expected of him that he hasn’t had the chance to figure out who he is outside of that. And I think we all go through that, to some degree. Trying to find ourselves. Trying to fit into something that’s supposed to give us purpose.

          “Then, we realize we’re not meant to fit into that purpose, so we’re lost, constantly flitting in and out of standards others have set for us...I can’t claim to know exactly who I am, either, quite frankly. A lifetime seems so long...how could anyone be the same when they’re seventy as when they’re four?”

 

          “Are you sure you’re all right, Hermione? I can take watch for the next few hours. I can’t sleep, anyway, with everything that’s going on.”

 

          “If you wouldn’t mind,” Hermione’s voice shapes around a yawn.

 

          “Not at all. Get some rest. I’ll make more tea in a bit.”

 

          Draco hears footsteps, then a door closing. His eyes are still shut, but he struggles to take deep breaths after hearing their conversation. Focusing on the quiet chirping of birds outside, he manages to push most of it out of his mind, at least for now.

 

          "Malfoy."

 

          Something nudges his shoulder and he jumps, startling Harry, who's kneeling in front of him. Unlike every other person with brightly-colored eyes whom Draco has encountered, there is no ring of blue or speck of brown in Harry's irises — just wonderful, breath-taking green of all different shades. Still exhausted, Draco rubs his eyes, yawns, and stretches his arms above his head.

 

          "Last call for tea," Harry says, and Draco has to blink a few times before the edges of his vision begin to sharpen.

 

          "Mm," Draco responds with a rough throat. Then he shifts his arms and realizes there's a blanket thrown over him. It's small and quilted, but the patterns sewn into it don't move, so it must be made by muggles. Or tasteless wizards. Instantly, he knows Harry put the blanket over him while he was sleeping, even if the blanket belongs to Granger. Tiny splotches of pink drip over his cheeks like honey and he throws the blanket away from him, the swelling weightlessness of his heart making him feel as though he's tripped and fallen down a flight of stairs.

 

          "Well, don't take it out on the blanket, whatever it is."

 

          After a desperately-needed moment to breathe and get his brain working again, Draco moves backward, away from Harry, and tries to stand up. His hands are clenched into fists, angry because everyone saw Harry put a  _ blanket _ over him while he was sleeping and even angrier that he can't lash out at Harry for it. And now, here he is, flopping against the chair like a fish out of water, helpless in his attempts to get onto his feet with his arms stuck together; he feels so ruinous, so hateful, and so lacking control over his own life, that he could sob right there, in front of Potter, in front of the entire world, if it were watching. But, he won’t.

 

          Soon, he stills with his cheek smashed against the ground, having given up on standing and instead trying to keep a dignified expression, but ending up with everything from the tip of his chin to his eyebrows scrunched together, red-faced and obviously distressed.

 

          "Need help?" Potter asks, barely keeping himself from laughing. Draco hasn't wanted to punch him in the face this badly since last year. "Here."

 

          Harry undoes Hermione's sticking spell once more and reaches a hand out to Draco to pull him up, but Draco just scowls at him and pushes himself off the ground after a good deal of effort. There are words from Harry and Hermione’s conversation echoing in his thoughts poisonously and he can’t seem to ignore them anymore.

 

          "I've already been through enough without having to deal with this shit, too. You'd think maybe because I haven't  _ done _ anything but offer to help you, you could trust me."

 

          "You stole your wand back as soon as the opportunity presented itself and cut my face open with it. You still call Hermione a mudblood, recite ridiculous pureblood ideologies, and I bet if You-Know-Who could bring back your parents, you'd turn us over to him without a problem. I could go on, if you'd like."

 

          Draco's anger is sucked out of him at once, making room for guilt and a strange glimmer of longing. Swallowing, he turns away instead of continuing to stare Harry down. 

 

          "Yet, I'm still helping you. Because I know the games you like to play a little better than I probably should. Because the war has changed you, just like it's changed me. I might have been sucked into all of this fifteen years before you were, but whatever you think, I'm not some heartless hero bent on maintaining my reputation.

          "I can see that you're worth more than your family's wealth and blood status. And, honestly, if you still think what you're born with matters more than what you make for yourself later in life, well...it doesn't."

 

          “Yeah, well, only you would—” he starts, before catching himself, suddenly terrified of finishing his sentence. His eyebrows are twitching and his pupils dilate with fear as he glances at Harry, who seems to be coming closer even though Draco was doing everything in his power to push him away only moments ago. But, that’s just how Harry is, Draco guesses. He doesn’t listen. And, if Draco had to be honest with himself, he couldn’t be more grateful for that.

 

          “We’ve all lost something in this war and it’s not even over yet. But, regardless of what you don’t have, Draco, I think you're close to finding something much more important than anything that's been taken from you."

 

          "What could I  _ possibly _ have gained from this situation, Potter?"

 

          Draco barely gets these words out. Harry's face is so near his own that he can see every single one of Harry's eyelashes...one more step and he can feel Harry's hot, minty breath drag across his cheek...

 

          "Yourself."

 

          From the emotions stirring in Harry's eyes and the proximity of their mouths, Draco's stomach leaps, thinking for an insane moment that Harry might actually kiss him outside of his dreams, but he doesn't. A hand shoots past his ear and grabs something behind him. When Harry sits down so that their elbows are nearly touching, there's something golden stirring between his fingers: a snitch.

 

          "I want to be right about you, Draco. I want you to help me. Maybe revenge isn't my motivation for wanting to defeat You-Know-Who, but I'll be avenging my parents all the same."

 

          Draco wants to ask about the snitch and where Harry got it, but a more important question comes to the front of his mind.

 

          "So, if we're out for the same thing, why aren't you letting me fight with you?"

 

          "Because if you  _ only _ want to fight for revenge, you'll be reckless. You need to be aware of your morals — not of the morals your parents think you should have.  _ Your _ morals. Do you really think Hermione's blood has anything to do with her ability to cast magic? Even though she's placed top in every class for six years?"

 

          Absentmindedly, Harry tucks the snitch away in his pocket and taps his fingertips against the arm of a nearby chair.

 

          "Top right after  _ me _ ," Draco grumbles bitterly.

 

          "You didn't answer my question."

 

          "Because I don't know what you want to hear."

 

          Harry sighs and shakes his head, thinking for a second before his voice filters into the room, a laugh held behind his teeth.

 

          "It's not about what I  _ want _ to hear, Draco. I just don't want us to go back to assumptions. You assume I hate you. I assume you hate me. And we both assume there's a single reason for it."

 

          "Well, there is, isn't there? I'm the posh twat with a stick up his ass about everything and you're the golden boy who manages to be pleasant even when the potion's slapping the brim."

 

          "...Even when the potion's what?"

 

          "Wizard saying. When things, er...get chaotic. Which is most of your life, I suppose."

 

          "You don't know the half of it."

 

          Turning away from Harry, Draco sighs and straightens his shirt. His hair is sticking straight up in the back, as though he's been struck by lightning, which, he supposes, is not far from how he felt when he thought Harry might kiss him, but he leaves it be after a few swats at it. There's not much he can do without some Sleekeazy's and a comb.

 

          "I have a good idea. You grew up with muggles who didn't like you. You killed a man in your first year at Hogwarts, then took on a basilisk in your second."

 

          "How do you know all that?"

 

_           Because I’m the reason you knew about the creature in the first place, you numpty,  _ thinks Draco, his tongue aching to spill the secret. That was the first year Draco had doubted his parents — he was a mess in all of his classes, working harder than ever to get better grades than Granger, watching his classmates be petrified and wanting so desperately to be ecstatic about it, but finding himself more perplexed and alone in his conflictions than ever. But, he continued to repeat the hateful words of his parents, letting his jealousy of Potter’s being a parselmouth fuel his anger.

 

          "Nothing stays a secret for long at Hogwarts,” he replies, finally.

 

          “Right,” Harry agrees, standing up slowly and walking over to the kettle on the stove. 

 

          “That Weasley girl...she was the one who had the diary, wasn’t she?”

 

          “You knew, didn’t you?” There’s a pause, and then Harry turns abruptly to face Draco, a confused but angry blaze sweeping across his eyes. “You knew and you did nothing to stop it.”

 

          A muscle in Draco’s abdomen twitches and he can feel something building up in his stomach, a gentle stirring of grief, regret, and guilt like an oncoming illness.

 

          “I was  _ twelve _ , Potter! Even if I had cared to intervene, what could I possibly have done?”

 

          “You could have shown a little courage instead of acting like some pet your parents set loose to parrot their opinions.”

 

          A horrifying urge to defend his pride distracts Draco from thinking anything of the cup in Harry’s hand that’s headed toward his lips. By the time the cup is tilted back and tea is flowing freely into Harry’s mouth, it’s too late.

 

          “You have no right to speak about my parents like that! You don’t have a  _ clue _ what it means to be a Malfoy,” Draco bites warningly.

 

          “Well, thank Merlin for that.”

 

          Without contemplating his actions, Draco’s right hand flies to the collar of Harry’s shirt and grabs it, shoving him against a counter. The cup that had been in Harry’s hand drops to the floor and shatters with a noise loud enough for Ron and Hermione to hear, but they don’t seem to. Draco’s face is contorted, his breathing erratic, fury pumping into his veins like fingers of color steeping into hot water.

 

          “I could kill you, Potter. I could kill you instantly, before you had the chance to call for help. My wand is in your jacket pocket...I could reach for it right now and, in the blink of an eye, you’d be dead. No more war. No more Chosen One. Just a hunk of wasted flesh littering the floor: the great Harry Potter, defeated because he trusted the wrong person.

          “You don’t realize your weakness, do you? You care too much. You let your emotions rule you. You give second chances to people who don’t deserve them.  _ I’d have you, Potter. _ ”

 

          His voice cracks, eyes glistening with tears he would never dream of shedding.

 

          “Then, no one would ever doubt that Draco Malfoy, always referred to as the son of his father and never as an entity of his own, is exactly who he was raised to be.”

 

          Harry stares back at Draco, fearless, both of them breathing heavily and not willing to break each other’s gazes. Then, Harry fumbles in his pocket and pulls out Draco’s wand, jamming it into Draco’s hand and wrapping his fingers around the latter’s fist, making sure the hawthorn wand is pointing directly at his chest.

 

          "Kill me, then. If this is who you really are — if there isn’t anything else to be said about you, then prove it.”

 

          Draco swallows hesitantly, the feeling in his stomach pounding at his head, ringing in his ears, and wrapping its cold hands around his throat.

 

          “Kill me! Show me that I’ve been right about you all these years!”

 

          There’s a lifetime of silence enclosing them like a transparent dome, a force of tension hovering just above their heads and trickling down their backs. Harry leans closer to Draco, a terrifying lack of distance between their faces.

 

          “ _ Kill me _ ,” whispers Harry, and Draco’s body makes a decision before his mind can protest, moving forward and taking Harry’s lips between his own. It’s chaos, noses in the wrong places and hands twitching, not knowing where to be. But, it’s also harmony; the first sparks of a bonfire; cool rain on bare, unadulterated skin; grass so tall one could hide away in it; and wet, compacted sand dunes that crumble away together like brown sugar.

 

          He can’t bring himself to be shocked. He knows this isn't new, that he always had two emotions warring over each other inside him: Jealousy is consumingly hateful and can skew powerful emotions; Harry has been nothing short of magnificent in everything that he's done since they met and Draco frequently ran into things that proved he was not the same way — that he had flaws he sometimes didn't know existed. But, ultimately, the last few months have taught him to love many things about Harry he thought he hated, because he's discovered that one of the only major differences between them is the way they were raised, which is something neither of them can change. 

 

          The past is set — it can't be unraveled and stitched back together. Growth exists because there was something lacking before, and that's an essential part of becoming an adult.

 

          When Draco pulls back to breathe, Harry’s eyes stretch wider than Draco’s ever seen them and they stare unblinkingly at each other, cheeks so red they could have had beets rubbed into them, waiting for the other to say something. Then, something hard collides with Draco’s cheek, there’s a hideous cracking noise like a bone snapping, Harry’s retracting his fist while he slides down the counter top, and Draco is looking back at him furiously, ready to take a swing for himself, until he realizes that Harry is passed out on the ground.

 

_           The tea. _

 

          Draco tucks his wand away in the waistband of his pants, then tries to drag Harry somewhere the other two won’t notice him, but with only one arm and hardly any muscle, he gives up after a few minutes.

 

          Rushing on light feet to a wall the kitchen shares with one of the tent’s bedrooms, Draco presses his ear to peeling, olive green wallpaper and listens for a voice. But, the room is silent, and the rest of the tent seems to be, as well.

 

          Maybe they drank the tea while he was sleeping?

 

          Quietly and very, very slowly, Draco creeps around to the door and turns the knob. There’s no audible signs that anyone is in the room, but when he steps inside, he finds Granger and Weasley sound asleep, leaning their heads against either a bookshelf or the bed.

 

          One of Hermione’s hands is tangled in the strap of her tiny, beaded bag, and the other is clutched around an old book with worn binding —  _ The Tales of Beedle the Bard _ .

 

          Draco snorts, tucking away an insult related to her reading children’s books, then wrestles the bag away from her and reaches his hand inside. 

 

          He knocks over a stack of something while he’s pulling out three rather large, hardcover books:  _ The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts, The Dark Arts Outsmarted, _ and  _ Magick Most Evile _ . 

 

_           Magick Most Evile _ , being an infamous, restricted book, unlike the other two, is the first one Draco opens and he immediately searches for any sort of mark in its pages. When he doesn’t find one, he puts it aside and opens the other two, which are both textbooks and have nothing but notes on spells and things they were supposed to write about in class.

 

          This goes on for what feels like another hour. Draco tears through book after book, his hair wild around his frazzled face, but he finds nothing of importance. He knows all these books better than Hermione does, he would bet, and even so, he can’t recall a single thing that Harry could be using to defeat Voldemort.

 

          A special weapon? A curse? Certainly they wouldn’t be using his own brand of magic against him...no, Saint Potter’s too soft for any of that…

 

          As he’s pondering options, time slipping away like grains of rice poured from a pot, he looks back at the now immense stack of books lying next to him and feels an overwhelming, yet inexplicable urge to pick up  _ Magick Most Evile _ once more and pull back its cover.

 

          The book is fragile within ancient, worn binding, as though it will fall to dust in his hands. Something about it compels him to waste time looking through it again, and sure enough, three pages in, he finds two highlighted sections of words that he’d missed the first time he’d looked through it: 

 

_           "Of the Horcrux, wickedest of magical inventions, we shall not speak nor give direction, due to the disturbing nature of its construction...There is only one known way to destroy a horcrux after having created one, although the destruction of horcruxes has never been attempted by any witch or wizard on record to date(3).” _

 

          His eyes trail down to the footnotes at the bottom of the page and find the number 3, under which reads:

 

_           “It has been said that to destroy a horcrux, one must feel genuine remorse for the actions that individual performed to obtain said horcrux. No one has proven this to be effective, but several influential dark wizards, such as Herpo the Foul, seem to share a similar view.” _

 

          Still holding the book in his one hand, Draco reads these passages at least five more times, thoughts and images whizzing through his mind like a swarm of angry pixies — glowing, heartless red eyes; slitted, snake-like nostrils; and a tiny, lightning-bolt-shaped strip of skin…

 

          When he drops the book and frantically starts putting everything back into Hermione’s bag, his heart is beating so quickly, he’s terrified he’ll have a stroke.

 

          That’s why Voldemort didn’t die when his curse rebounded on Harry. That’s why he goes on about having delved further than anyone into the realm of immortality. 

 

          The realization slaps him in the face like an icy gust of wind: Voldemort has a horcrux — and Harry must be looking for it.

 

          He’s thinking about how angry Bellatrix got when she thought the three of them had stolen that sword out of her vault when he notices a drop of red on the dusty parchment. Touching two fingers to his nose, he feels an abundance of moisture, which he knows is blood, but he’s too distracted and pressed for time to fix himself up right now.

 

          The only thing he can occupy his mind with is how it all fits. Voldemort can’t be killed until his horcrux is, too. That’s how they’re trying to defeat him!

 

_           And do they think it’s in Bellatrix’s vault…? _

 

          He runs back into the kitchen toward Harry in a slight panic, speckles of crimson showering his shirt, thinking maybe he should tie them all up before they find out they’ve been slipped a potion. 

 

          Before kneeling down in front of Harry, he vanishes the contents of the kettle and aims a  _ Scourgify _ at it, for good measure.

 

          He’s just about to try to move Harry again when he notices a dark liquid trickling down the boy’s ear and onto his neck, like melted red wax. Inhaling harshly, he holds his breath, recognizing the liquid as blood.

 

          “No,” he mumbles, placing a delicate finger near a prominent cut in the back of Harry’s head and pulling it back as though something’s bitten him.

 

          His chest is heaving as he shifts Harry’s head carefully onto his knee and pulls out his wand.

 

          “No, no, no, no, no...”

 

          A ragged gasp fills the noiseless tent and reminds Draco that there’s no one around to help him, because every last one of them is out cold.

 

_           And it’s Draco’s fault _ , spits his conscience jarringly,  _ all of it. _

 

          There are no lingering thoughts of horcruxes as he points his wand at the cut and focuses intently on healing Harry. A new stream of blood spreads warmly over his hand.

 

          “ _ Episkey _ .”

 

          The wound immediately stitches together as though Harry’s skin had never been torn at all, and Draco makes quick work of cleaning the blood with another  _ Scourgify _ .

 

          “Don’t even  _ think _ about dying, you selfish prat,” Draco commands, his voice trembling. “We’ll lose the war because of you.”

 

          He’s trying desperately to convince himself that that’s why he’s worried about losing Harry, even when Harry’s eyes are still closed, the pulse at his throat is impossible to find with such shaky hands, and Draco realizes he’s holding back a sob.

 

          “We’ll — we’ll lose…” starts Draco, trailing off before he can say the word  _ you _ .

 

          With his wand held out between two fingers, Draco yells, “ _Accio_ _Cruroplus_!” hoping there’s some blood-replenishing potion around, but nothing comes. There’s blood everywhere, grabbing onto Draco’s socks, smearing across the carpet…

 

          He hates blood. It’s messy and reminds him of his own mortality.

 

          “ _ Accio skele-grow _ !  _ Accio dittany _ !” Draco practically screams, before he remembers that he doesn’t need dittany, because the wound is sealed, but Harry’s lost  _ so much blood _ , and the puddle is crawling under the cabinets now...there’s a lot more than Draco thought there was…

 

          “You can’t die. Not now…”

 

          Wiping away the unnoticed tear that’s found its way into the crook of his nose, Draco yells the last thing he can think of, knowing that he’s already summoned it, but not willing to give up until he’s tried everything.

 

          “ _ Accio blood-replenishing potion _ !”

 

          A small, glass bottle flies into his hand, splashes of dark liquid churning inside of it as his arm shakes. Draco’s eyebrows shoot up, surprised and vaguely annoyed that it didn’t come when he called it _C_ _ ruroplus _ , and he pulls the stopper out with his teeth, putting the bottle down momentarily to open Harry’s mouth with the only hand he has.

 

          “Bloody fucking — stay open!” he commands, but it’s no use. Harry’s mouth keeps closing as soon as he lets go of it and his other arm is absolutely useless to him. “ _ Petrificus totalus! _ ”

 

          Potter’s body stiffens, his mouth finally staying open, and Draco immediately pours the liquid down the back of Harry’s throat until a quarter of the bottle is gone, which he knows is enough. 

 

          He presses his fingers to Harry’s neck, checking again for a pulse, and he feels something thudding almost negligibly beneath the latter’s skin, which he must have been too frazzled to feel before. When his fingers leave a streak of red, Draco looks at the entire scene more closely — there’s blood, both his and Harry’s, staining his pallid skin, dotting his palm and seeping into his knuckles, as well as an unpalatable amount of saliva, which he wipes on his pants.

 

          With one more  _ Scourgify _ , Draco’s able to clean up the kitchen, but a few stains linger on Harry’s shirt.

 

          “Fucking hell,” he swears, removing the body bind, standing Harry carefully against a cupboard, and conjuring ropes that tighten around Harry’s hands.

 

          When he sits back after taking a few massive breaths to steady himself and getting ready to stand up and deal with the other two, his eyes seem to stick to Harry, and he pauses. Potter’s chest is moving, just barely, and the sense of relief that hits Draco is overwhelming. 

 

          He keeps looking at Harry, noticing things he never had the chance to notice before: his ears are a little too big, his eyelashes are darker than his hair, and there’s one tiny freckle hidden just below his jaw. 

 

          Four years ago, he probably would have taken these imperfections as something to tease Harry about, but now he looks at them and a timid smile sweeps across his face — the first genuine smile that's been able to penetrate his mask since the war started: a moment in which it doesn't feel difficult just to  _ be _ . Just to exist and breathe and exude a bit of humanity, even if no one can see it.

 

          And while he’s smiling, a cataclysmic realization fills his heart like a small balloon, its surface thinning and more vulnerable than it’s ever been, begging to be popped: every misconstrued glance, biting reaction, and enviable triumph has been able to get under Draco's skin so effectively because he cares. If he didn't care, he wouldn't have spent nights tossing and turning over the tiny things that Harry did on a regular basis.

 

          Maybe he doesn’t just want to be  _ like _ Harry — maybe he wants to be involved in Harry’s life, even if he doesn’t fit, and maybe he’s always wanted that, to a degree. Indubitably, he wants to be worthy of Harry’s admiration, although for what, Draco’s not entirely sure. But, he also wishes hollowly that he could be as good as Harry — that he had started out as good as Harry, and hadn’t been raised to fit a mold that was never the right shape for him. 

 

          For one insane second, as he’s staring at the small tears in the collar of Harry’s T-Shirt, he almost wishes he had never tried to be what his parents expected of him.

 

\----------

 

          It takes a little more than five minutes to levitate Weasley and Granger into the kitchen and tie them up, but when he finally manages it, he makes a cup of tea for himself to settle his nerves before casting, “ _ Ennervate! _ ” on each one of them.

 

          Harry is the last of them to regain full consciousness, and when he does, he squints up at the light hanging from the ceiling and promptly pukes on the floor next to him.

 

          Ignoring the guilty and slightly disgusted pinch at his gut, Draco cleans the mess from where he is and makes an uncomfortable face.

 

          “Shit,” he whispers, but the word clings distastefully to his lips and no one hears it.

 

          “You son of a bitch — I’ll kill you!” Ron shouts and struggles violently against his restraints, nostrils flaring.

 

          “If I have to put a body bind on you, I will. I’m only doing this so that you’ll hear me out.”

 

          “Hear you out? YOU DRUGGED US!”

 

          “Weasley, I’m warning you. I  _ will _ —”

 

          “You slimy bastard! I knew Harry was wrong to trust you!”

 

          “ _ Petrificus totalus _ !”

 

          “Ron!”

 

          Weasley goes rigid mid-insult and Hermione cries out, looking over at him. Draco realizes this is the first time he’s seen legitimate terror in her eyes.

 

          “I repeat, I’m not doing this to hurt any of you…I just want to talk.”

 

          Harry moans and closes his eyes painfully. Draco hoped there wouldn’t be any lasting effects from the injury, but it looks as though he’s gotten a pretty bad concussion.

 

          Granger snaps her head to look at Draco, the hard lines of her face showing nothing but intense loathing. 

 

          “What did you do to him?!”

 

          “I didn’t do anything. The idiot probably just fell and smacked his head on someth —”

          “Why...how did you?” Harry mumbles before hissing and closing his eyes again. Draco swallows his concern and lets himself brag a little.

 

          “The tea. You should have kept an eye on it.”

 

          “The potion…”

          “Yes. Thank you for that.”

 

          Hurt and betrayal tugs down on the corner of Harry’s lips and he swallows, narrowing his eyes at Draco.

 

          “I trusted you…for a  _ second _ ...”

 

          That image of Harry standing on a mountain, holding Draco’s heart in his hand, resurfaces. Swallowing, Draco ignores it and pushes forward.

 

          “And what did I say, Potter? Trusting the wrong people will get you killed!”

 

          “You wouldn’t kill me. You’re too much of a coward, always running away from both sides of —”

 

          “— That’s enough! I —”

 

          “ — got what you wanted, Malfoy! You’ve gone and made us hate you again —”

 

          “Shut up!”

 

          “— proud of yourself, too, because pride is probably the only emotion you’re capable —”

 

          “Shut up and  _ listen _ to me! I know about the horcrux!”

 

          Harry’s mouth snaps closed as he and Hermione exchange a worried glance.

 

          “What?” Hermione asks and Draco takes a deep breath, hoping that if he explains, his actions will make sense to them.

 

_           And Harry won’t go back to being the enemy. _

 

          “I went through your books. I know what you’re looking for, why you tried to break into the Lestranges’ vault.”

 

_           Maybe this will kill two birds with one stone... _

          “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she responds, terror apparent in the slight quiver of her lip.

 

          Draco can’t help but smirk condescendingly.

 

          “You’re a terrible liar, Granger, and we don’t have time to play games, so there are two things I need both of you to understand: One, You-Know-Who is still out there, killing innocent people, and two, I want him dead. For good.”

 

          “Since when do you care about innocent people?” Harry spits cruelly.

 

_           Since I found out exactly what makes a Gryffindor tick. _

 

          “Shove it, Potter. We both know things have changed.”

 

          The skeptical softening of Harry’s scowl is almost undetectable, but Draco notices it, nonetheless. Draco knows what he says now is absolutely critical — if he can put aside fear for just a few minutes, he might be able to convince them that he’s on their side.

 

          “Yeah...I thought…” Harry tries to respond, but he lurches forward with a sickening gag, followed by a series of coughs.

 

          “We need to take him to a hospital,” Hermione blurts urgently.

 

          “Do you really think it’s a good idea for Undesirable Number One to waltz into an establishment the Ministry is overseeing?” 

 

          At Hermione’s solemn expression, Draco has to bite the inside of his lip to keep from giving away any hints that he’s concerned about Harry, too. 

 

          “He probably needs Skele-grow. So, someone will have to go to London and get some. Then, I suggest we go to Lestrange’s house and retrieve the key to her vault. You-Know-Who is preparing for a war and, if a war is waged, he will win...unless we take him down first.”

 

          After scrutinizing the stains on Harry’s shirt, Hermione turns back to Draco.

 

          “Are you implying that you know where she lives?”

 

          “Yes. I also know she hasn’t stayed in that house since she went to Azkaban and her wards are probably still the same, even now.”

 

          There’s a formidable silence in which Hermione has her eyebrows scrunched up at the wall and Draco can almost hear a myriad of thoughts tumbling out of her temples.

 

          “I would ask why you had to go about talking with us this way, but…” she sighs, trailing off, “I actually think that’s more our fault than yours.”

 

          “What? Hermione!” Harry interjects indignantly.

 

          “Well, what would we have done if he came to us asking to help? Wanting to know what we were doing? Do you think for a second we would have told him  _ anything _ ?”

 

          “But, he tricked us! He drugged us and  _ lied _ —”

 

          “I haven’t been lying to you  _ nearly _ as much as I should be!” Draco shouts, interrupting.

 

          “ — punched me in the face twice, then —”

 

          “Don’t pretend as though you haven’t injured me just as much, if not more —”

 

          “ — us think that he actually wanted to help, when what he wanted all along —”

 

          “Quiet!” Hermione yells and Harry and Draco both stop to look at her. “Arguing isn’t going to solve anything. For Godric’s sake, I thought things were better between you two!”

 

          With a scoff and some nervous laughter, Draco looks at the ground and opens his mouth to say something, but Harry beats him to it.

 

          “Believe me, Hermione, nothing’s changed at —”

 

          “Oh, you and Weasley —”

 

          “— still the same spoiled brat he always was —”

 

          “— two bumbling idiots, blind to reason —”

 

          “ENOUGH!” Hermione’s voice booms into the tent and successfully puts Harry and Draco into silence again. Before she addresses Malfoy, she turns to Harry with an apologetic face. “Please. Malfoy, I’m willing to make you a deal.”

 

          “Hermione, no!” Harry yells indignantly, but she ignores him for the time being. His cheeks are tinged with green and he looks as though he’s on the verge of throwing up again. The fact that seeing Harry like this makes Draco ache with the wish to cure him is new and unfamiliar — he could easily confuse it with the wish to hurl something breakable at the wall and watch it shatter. 

 

_           Since when could I tell the difference? _

 

          “You get the supplies we need for Harry and I’ll consider having a serious discussion with you on how we should proceed.”

 

          “You think you can make demands of  _ me _ when only one of us is armed?”

 

          “Yes.”

 

          “Oh? And how is that?”

 

          “Because I believe you. If you wanted to kill us or hand us over, you would have done so by now. Harry’s hardly the only one who can perceive that.”

 

          Draco looks at Harry, who remains quiet, either because he’s too sick to speak or because somewhere in that muddled, impulsive Gryffindor brain of his, he still believes Draco, too.

 

          An overwhelming exhaustion disguised as relief weighs down Draco’s bones and he opens his mouth to contradict Granger again, because that’s just what he  _ does _ , but he holds himself back with tremendous force. It’s as though his tongue is a thick slab of lead and he’s wrapped his arms around it, pushing it down and making sure it doesn’t move, but he can’t for the life of him understand why.

 

_           Emotions are the ultimate weakness of man, _ his mother’s voice whispers from a memory,  _ don’t ever let them overcome you. _

 

          But, he’s never been as stoic as his mum. His best efforts have always proved not to be enough. Someone has seen him, puffy eyes and wet cheeks, as broken as the cracked mirror in front of him; doubled over in grief in front of a museum; mourning and starving to death in a cell.

 

          Someone has tasted regret and yearning on his lips, and Draco wonders if Harry can recall any of this with as much clarity.

 

          Could it be that Harry finally bothered to notice Draco because he saw through his defenses? Would it possibly be that simple to insert himself into Harry’s life, as he’s always wanted to?

 

          “When — when you say, ‘discussion’...” Draco starts, taking a deep, steadying breath to fill the gap in the middle of his sentence, “do you mean there’s a chance you’ll allow me to contribute to your plans? To help you defeat him?”

 

          The honesty and vulnerability in his words makes Draco cringe inwardly, but he doesn’t linger on taking them back for too long. Hermione looks over to Harry and Ron, concern wetting her eyes, and it makes Draco feel like a monster.

 

          “I can promise you a discussion. I can’t promise you anything else. We came on this journey to help Harry — in the end, it’s his decision.”

 

          A sudden gasp escapes her when she finishes her sentence, and as they both turn to look at Harry, Draco realizes he’s passed out.

 

          Clutching his hawthorn wand as though it were a lifeline, Draco’s hand starts to shake again.

 

          “We’re leaving now, then. There’s a rural potions supply shop near the outskirts of Hertfordshire. I hope you know how to cast a disillusionment charm.”

 

          “I’m sorry —  _ we _ ?”

 

          “Yes. If I went alone, you’d all pack up and leave — oh, don’t deny it. I’m far from stupid, Granger, and really, your attempts at deception are pitiful at best. So, if Weasley’s likely to bash my face in and Harry’s unconscious, that leaves you.”

 

          Draco gets to his feet, ignoring the shouts of his subconscious that demand to know what in Merlin’s name he’s doing, because he doesn’t have time to tear down his own obstacles right now, not when his parents’ vengeance is on the line...not when Harry Potter, The Chosen One, is slumped pathetically on the floor in front of him.

 

          He undoes Granger’s bindings, but keeps his wand pointed at her.

 

          “How will the wards fair when we apparate away from this place?” he asks.

 

          “As well as when I’m out gathering fruit and nuts, I suppose.”

 

          “So, I can get us back here?”

 

          “Er — yes, you definitely could…”

 

          “All right. Grab my arm.”

 

          “Wait, we — we can’t just leave them like this!” Hermione whines, indicating Ron and Harry.

 

          Draco rolls his eyes, irritated already, and undoes Ron’s body bind. He immediately starts yelling and thrashing about in his restraints.

 

          “HERMIONE, DON’T LISTEN TO HIM! HE’S PLAYING YOU!” Ron shouts.

 

          Hermione hesitates, her gaze sticking to Ron’s fury-red face, but Draco grabs her arm and starts to walk toward the tent’s entrance, where they turn on the spot and vanish into the crisp, mid-Winter air.


End file.
